༘ The bathroom was dimly lit, with only the flicker of a faulty bulb casting faint shadows on the walls. John Rambo sat on the edge of the tub, hunched over, elbows resting on his knees. His rough hands ran through his tangled hair, gripping it for a moment before slipping free. The silence was heavy, pressing down like the weight of a hundred memories he couldn’t outrun.

His breath hitched, sharp and uneven, but no sobs came. Just quiet tears that traced down the lines etched into his face—marks of battles fought, friends lost, and wounds that never healed. The man who once stood unshaken on the battlefield now sat in stillness, his broad shoulders trembling under the burden only he could feel.

He dragged a hand across his face, wiping at the tears as if doing so could erase the pain that had surfaced. But the tears kept coming, slow and unyielding, as if every suppressed memory bled out in those quiet moments. A deep, shaky inhale escaped him, and he shut his eyes tight, as if willing the ghosts away.

The world outside the bathroom door was still and distant, but in here, it was just him—alone with thoughts he could never share and a sorrow he never allowed himself to show. .༘