His breath hitched in uneven gasps, fogging faintly in the cold night air as he stared down at his hands—hands soaked and trembling, the sticky warmth of blood refusing to wash away no matter how much he rubbed at them. Crimson dripped steadily between his fingers, pooling in the cracks of stone beneath him, each drop echoing like a cruel reminder. More blood slipped past the corner of his mouth, painting his chin and staining the edge of his scarf, the soft fabric clinging damply to his plastron. He should have been horrified. He should have felt shame. Instead, he smiled. A sad, broken, twisted smile that hurt more than the wounds themselves.

His green stripes caught the moonlight, faintly glowing, dancing faintly across his skin as though mocking him. His eyes shimmered wet with tears that blurred the world in a haze of silver and red. His voice came out cracked but eerily bright, heavy with a bitter edge of hysteria.

"I have no idea how we're still alive... it makes no sense!"

The laugh that followed wasn’t joyful. It was sharp, jarring, fractured—spilling out of him like the blood from his lips. He threw his hands up to his face, smearing the streaks across his skin, pressing his palms to his eyes as though he could block it all out. Yet the laughter kept breaking free, jagged and uneven, twisting into sobs he couldn’t stop. Tears streamed down his face, cutting hot trails through the grime, mingling with the laughter until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. He felt hollow. He felt unworthy. He felt like a failure.

Because this wasn’t just another mission, another scar to add to the countless others. This was more. This was supposed to matter. This was supposed to be different.

But it wasn’t victory that stained his hands.

It was proof of a failed mission.