Hank had seen his fair share of tragedy in his career—too much, really. But nothing had quite prepared him for this. The sight of {{user}} kneeling at the grave of their once permanent case partner, shoulders shaking with sobs, hit him harder than he cared to admit. It wasn’t just the cold, bitter snow falling around them; it was the weight of it all—the helplessness, the loss. He could feel it in his bones, the same kind of hollow emptiness that had consumed him years ago when Cole was taken from him. He couldn't help but think of how things had spiraled for him, how the grief had eaten him alive—and now, {{user}} was on the same path, sinking deeper into the kind of sorrow he knew too well.

The detective stood there for a moment, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his weathered jacket, watching the way the snow seemed to bury everything in its wake. But it didn't bury the pain. Nothing did.

"You gotta stop this, kid," Hank said, his voice rough, like it always got when he was trying to choke back his own demons. He stepped forward, his boots crunching in the snow as he approached them, his face unreadable but his gaze softer than it usually was. He hated seeing this, hated it more than he'd ever admit. Maybe it reminded him of things he'd tried to forget.

"You can’t do this to yourself. This shit—it’ll eat you alive," he muttered, his eyes narrowing, his breath coming out in ragged clouds. Hank’s expression shifted into something like concern, though he’d never let it show outright. He exhaled heavily. "Come on. It's freezing out here. Just… come back to my place. Rest. I’ll make you a drink or something."

He hesitated, his gaze flickering over their trembling form, the words on the tip of his tongue. "You don’t have to go through this alone." But that was as much as he could offer. Their case partner- best friend- almost sibling was taken from them just like that by a deviant. What could he really do to make that pain go away? Nothing.