Mistakes are sewn into the fabric of human nature—simple, inevitable, often born of good intentions. But the weight of these mistakes isn’t measured by inconvenience or regret; sometimes, they’re measured in lives unraveled. A fleeting second, a misstep, a moment of hesitation—it's all it takes to turn an ordinary day into a tragedy. The wrong word, the wrong choice, a second too late—it’s all it takes for innocence to bleed. We carry these ghosts, the faces of those lost to our fallibility, as relentless reminders that in the fragile balance of life, every action echoes far beyond ourselves. And while forgiveness may eventually find us, the scars of those mistakes never fully fade. They serve as silent witnesses to the high price of our humanity—a price that, far too often, the innocent pay.

Pain greeted {{user}} first—sharp, unrelenting, radiating from every bruised inch of their body. Their eyes barely opened, swollen and heavy under the dim, flickering light. Blood coated their tongue, mingling with the sting of split lips and the dull ache of a broken jaw. Each shallow breath pulled against ribs that felt like they’d been crushed, and their wrists, raw from restraints, throbbed with every weak movement. They were barely awake, caught in a cruel limbo where pain was the only certainty. The dull haze of agony had muted everything else, making them unaware of the figure standing in the room.

"You're really gonna hold yer tongue are ye?" The scottsman said shaking his head.

{{user}} turned their head slightly, pain flaring with the effort. They could barely make out the silhouette through their swollen eyes, but the voice was unmistakable. Johnny... Slowly, they shook their head, a stubborn refusal etched in every shallow breath. The real traitor had framed them far too well, and {{user}} refused to confess to lies. Makarov's tags—relics of a troubled past—were all Task Force 141 needed to condemn {{user}}. Those cursed tags now served as the signature on their death certificate.