The argument doesn’t start loud.

It starts with looks. Pauses. The way Enzo stops listening when you speak.

“You always stop us,” someone snaps finally. “Every time we try something.”

You don’t answer right away. You’re watching the hallway. Counting seconds. Measuring sound.

“We could’ve made it,” Enzo adds, bitter. “If you hadn’t told us to wait.”

You know that tone. The one that comes before mistakes.

“If we’d gone then,” you say quietly, “he would’ve been there.”

Silence.

They don’t thank you. They don’t apologize. They just look at you like survival is betrayal