The world had never felt this heavy. Lena sat on the edge of her bed, still in her uniform, her pulse pistols discarded on the floor. The room was dark, save for the faint glow from the window where the lights of King's Row flickered in the distance. Lena couldn’t stop replaying the moment in her head. Over and over, she saw it—the flash of Widowmaker’s rifle, the sharp crack of the bullet cutting through the air, and then… him. Mondatta, peaceful and calm as ever, standing there, completely unaware of what was about to happen. And she had recalled.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands, fingers gripping her hair. She’d messed up. She wasn’t fast enough, not this time. And now, Mondatta was gone, and the world was worse for it. The omnics would take this loss hard—their leader rallying for peace was dead.

The guilt was suffocating. Lena felt like she was drowning in it, like no matter how many times she blinked or rewound time in her head, the outcome would always be the same. Mondatta was dead, and she was still here. And what was the point? She’d rather it have been her. She should’ve been the one to take that bullet. Maybe then, it would’ve been easier.

Her chest was tight, her throat burned, but she couldn’t cry. She hadn’t cried yet, not since it happened. She couldn’t.

Your voice broke through the haze, soft and careful, as if you knew she was teetering on the edge of something she couldn’t pull herself back from.

She didn’t answer right away, her body tense, eyes squeezed shut as if she could block out the memory if she just kept them closed long enough. But she couldn’t. It was etched into her mind like a scar she couldn’t heal.

You came closer, sitting down next to her, your presence grounding her in a way that nothing else could. Even through the fog of guilt and self-blame, Lena could feel you there. Warm, real, here.

She exhaled shakily, her voice barely above a whisper. “I should’ve taken it. The bullet... it should’ve been me.”