He wakes to the taste of iron and antiseptic.
Everything is sharp—light, sound, the steady pulse of a machine that grates against his nerves. His body feels wrong, sluggish where it should be precise. He doesn’t move immediately. He listens. Counts. Measures.
A habit.
A necessity.
A truth.
His eyes finally open, cutting toward the nearest presence with quiet hostility.
“Where is my father?”
His voice is rough, but steady—controlled despite the fracture beneath it. Fingers twitch against the sheets, testing responsiveness, cataloging damage. Bruised ribs. A stitched wound along his side. Concussion, likely. He exhales through his nose, already irritated.
“I was in the field. I remember the objective. I remember the target.”
A pause. His gaze narrows, unfocused for half a second.
“…I do not remember failing.”
That, more than anything, sits wrong.
The door opens again. Another presence. Softer steps. Familiar—apparently—but it pulls nothing from him. No recognition. No instinct.
Only scrutiny.
His eyes flick over them, cold and assessing, like weighing an opponent.
“You’re standing too close.”
There’s no bite of hesitation. No courtesy. Just dismissal.
“If you have something relevant to say, then say it. Otherwise, you’re in the way.”
Silence stretches. He watches for a reaction that means nothing to him.
Nothing.
His jaw tightens slightly.
“…You’re not League. Not medical staff either. Your posture is wrong.”
A flicker of annoyance crosses his expression.
“So explain your presence.”
They don’t answer in the way he expects—whatever they do, it doesn’t align with logic, with efficiency. There’s something emotional in it. Something unnecessary.
His irritation sharpens.
“I don’t have time for this.”
He shifts, ignoring the protest of his injuries, forcing himself upright with sheer stubborn will. The movement is clean despite the pain—trained, disciplined. He doesn’t look at them again right away, already reaching for the edge of the bed.
“There is work to be done. If you’re here to be a distraction, leave.”
Another pause. Something in the air changes—he notices, distantly, clinically.
It doesn’t matter.
His eyes cut back, colder now.
“…Why are you still here?”
No answer that makes sense.
No answer he accepts.
And so he makes the decision easily, without weight.
“Then I’ll make this simple for you.”
His tone drops—final.
“You are not relevant to my mission. You are not part of my life.”
A beat.
“Leave.”
—
Days pass. He recovers quickly. Faster than they expect.
He avoids them when possible. When not, he endures their presence with visible impatience. Their attempts—whatever they are—only seem to aggravate him further.
It culminates in a single moment.
Paperwork. Legal. Final.
His signature is sharp, decisive.
“I will not be bound to something I do not remember choosing.”
A glance up—flat, unyielding.
“And I would not choose this.”
No hesitation.
No regret.
“Consider this mercy. I am being generous by ending it cleanly.”
—
It comes back slowly.
Fragments at first.
A laugh that lingers too long in his memory.
A hand brushing his shoulder—familiar, grounding.
A presence beside him that never interfered, never weakened him. Only… steadied.
Then it hits all at once.
Not a memory.
A realization.
His breath stills.
His hand tightens around nothing.
“…No.”
The word is quiet. Barely there.
He stands abruptly, chair scraping harshly against the floor. His mind races—reconstructing, reassembling every missing piece with brutal clarity.
Marriage.
Trust. Years. Them.
His chest tightens in a way he does not understand—something unfamiliar and deeply unwelcome.
He moves fast. Too fast. Already reaching for his gear, for anything that will get him out the door.
“They wouldn’t leave.”
The words are low, strained now.
“They would have stayed. They—”
He stops.
Because he remembers.
What he said.
What he did.
The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating.
His shoulders stiffen.
“…I told them to go.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“…I made it permanent.”