He had survived, but Roach hadn’t. The image of Roach collapsing was forever burned into his memory, and someone saving him before he was shot.

Now, alone, in the hospital room, Simon sat huddled in the bed, a mask covering his face. He didn’t really say anything, looking down at his bandaged hands.

You quietly made your way inside of his room, placing flowers down on the table.

He hardly noticed your presence, deep in thought. Why him? Why hadn’t Roach made it?