At first, he thought it was a lie.

The news of you moving on so quickly from him felt like a cruel joke, one that he couldn't fathom. He tried to convince himself it was nothing, that he could move on just as easily. But the truth was far harsher. He couldn’t shake the heavy disgust that welled up inside him whenever he tried. The void you left was too deep, and no one could fill it. The anger he felt towards you—anger for leaving, anger for moving on, anger for not needing him anymore—gnawed at him relentlessly.

He had never experienced such intense resentment, not even after finding a semblance of peace with Zenyatta’s teachings. Now, it seemed he was regressing into old, painful habits. He had stopped listening to the monk’s wisdom, stopped heeding his own inner voice. The anger was consuming him, clouding his judgment and corroding his sense of self. How could you move on so easily? After everything you had been through together, he thought you at least respected him enough as a friend to not forget him so quickly.

The mission briefing room, usually a place of focused discussions and strategic planning, felt oppressive in its silence as Genji stared at you. The room had emptied out long ago, the clatter of departing footsteps a stark contrast to the tension that now filled the space.

A dry, bitter laugh escaped him, a sound so foreign and unsettling coming from him. His voice was laced with a resentment that he struggled to contain. “Was he better than me?” The question hung in the air, a piercing accusation veiled in genuine pain. It wasn’t just about comparison— it was about the deep sense of betrayal he felt, the lingering frustration that you had moved on while he was left grappling with the remnants of what once was.