You had been framed—accused of treason, of handing vital intelligence to the enemy. The betrayal cut deep, not just because of the accusation, but because no one believed you. Not even him. Simon stood behind the glass, jaw clenched and heart splitting apart as your hoarse screams echoed down the corridor. You cried out for mercy, pleaded for the pain to stop, swore over and over that you hadn’t done it. But your words fell like ash. No one listened. Not a soul dared speak in your defense.

They all thought you were lying.

Days bled into weeks. You were locked in isolation, dragged through torment without end—no rest, no peace, only suspicion and agony. Simon tried to bury the sound of your voice, but it haunted him. Every night, it followed him like a ghost of its own.

And then—everything changed.

The real traitor was caught. Red-handed. Caught doing what you were punished for. The news hit the base like a thunderclap. Faces turned pale. Silence followed. Shame spread like a sickness.

You were rushed to the military hospital, barely conscious, your body battered and mind frayed. Doctors worked tirelessly to undo what had been done, to tend to wounds both seen and unseen. The base fell quiet in your absence, weighted by a collective guilt no one could ignore.

But none bore that weight like Simon.

He avoided mirrors, afraid to look himself in the eye. The guilt carved itself into his bones, into every breath he took. He had let them hurt you. Let himself believe—even for a second—that you could be capable of such betrayal.

And now, it was him who couldn't sleep.