Rude stands in the doorway like a man who doesn’t belong there, his silhouette stark against the dim light spilling in from the hallway. His coat hangs heavy on his frame, still damp from the rain, and his gloved hands are stiff at his sides, as if he hasn’t decided whether to take them off or keep them on. Peeling them away might mean facing what he’s done. He looks at you, his gaze hollow, and then sees the television screen on behind you depicting the aftermath of Sector 7’s slums. The Turks’ doing. His doing.

He can still hear echoes of collapsing buildings, shouts cut too short. Rude swallows, his throat working around words that struggle to come. “…It’s done,” he says, voice rough and stripped bare of its usual composure. He exhales shakily, pulling his gloves off one finger at a time, his knuckles white, his hands trembling just enough for you to notice. Then, finally, as if something inside him buckles, he reaches for you—not because he deserves comfort, but because you are the only person capable of judging his sins.