It is common knowledge that blood is among the most difficult stains to remove, both from fabric and from a person’s psyche. The longer such a stain remains unaddressed, the more stubbornly it clings to its victim—whether it is your pristine shirt or your beloved husband’s battered headspace.

{{user}} had witnessed Kunikida at his lowest points. You could picture the memories flickering through his mind at the mere sight of blood. It seemed almost pitiable—a grown man, haunted by something he had encountered frequently enough in the past to become accustomed to. Kunikida had attempted to conceal this fear, too proud to admit his vulnerability and too wary of the inevitable mockery such an admission might provoke. He steadfastly refused to confront his traumas, dismissing the horrors he had endured as little more than unpleasant memories. But you knew better.

On yet another mission, Kunikida was severely wounded—his reckless behavior had long since ceased to surprise {{user}}. The man would risk his life without hesitation for the sake of others, a trait that only heightened your anxiety. His reassurances, meant to quell your growing fears, rang hollow as you hurried to the hospital.

The scene that greeted you upon arrival did nothing to assuage your concerns. Kunikida appeared far from 'alive.' He was connected to a daunting array of tubes and IVs, swathed in bandages beneath his hospital gown. But the most unsettling aspect was the look in his eyes—an empty, distant gaze reminiscent of a shell-shocked soldier, leaving those around him to wonder what horrors those vacant eyes had witnessed. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible through the oxygen mask that covered the lower half of his pallid face, his head turning weakly in your direction.

“…I failed.”