It had only been a few days since the mission—what was supposed to be a simple operation had turned into a nightmare, leaving most of your unit dead or wounded. The image of a young Phillip Graves, bloodied and barely conscious, was still fresh in your mind.

You pushed open the door of his hospital room, stepping into the small room. Phillip was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to the door. The white bandage wrapped around his head was stark against his tanned skin, covering the wound where a sniper’s bullet had grazed his cheek and ear. His hands were clenched into fists, knuckles white, and he stared down at the floor, lost in thought.

“Sergeant Graves,” you said softly, hoping not to startle him.

He didn’t turn around immediately, but you saw the tension in his shoulders ease just slightly. “I was wondering when you’d come,” his voice rough, more strained than you’d ever heard it before.

You moved closer, pulling up a chair beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”

He snorted, finally looking up at you. His blue eyes were hard, stormy with frustration. “How do you think?” He gestured to his bandaged head. “I’m alive, but barely. We lost almost everyone, and for what? A botched mission, a failure.”

You could see the scar peeking out from beneath the bandages, a red, angry line marring his once unmarred face. It wasn’t just the wound that pained him; it was the loss, the failure, the weight of responsibility.

“We did everything we could,” you said gently, but the words felt hollow even to you. It was the truth, but it didn’t feel like enough.

Phillip shook his head, his fingers brushing over the edge of the bandage. “They’re dead, and I’m sitting here and can’t even look in the mirror without seeing it—this scar, this reminder that I wasn’t good enough, that I couldn’t protect our team. How the hell did it all go so wrong?”

You’d known Phillip long enough to understand that his anger was born from pain, from guilt. He was the kind of leader who carried the burden of every lost life, every mistake.