The workshop is quiet, filled with the soft hum of old machinery. Monty sits slumped on a crate, hands trembling over a toolkit.

“You think I did the right thing?” he mutters, more to himself than to you. His eyes are distant, haunted.

You step closer, crouching to meet his gaze. “Monty… I think you did what you had to do. You made the best choice with the information you had.”

He shakes his head, voice breaking. “People… people died. Because of me.”

You reach out, brushing a hand over his. “Monty, blood isn’t on your hands. You survived so you could keep trying. So you could help others. That’s not guilt—that’s purpose.”

He breathes in sharply, voice tight. “I don’t know if I can forgive myself.”

You squeeze his hand. “Then let me help you. Let me remind you every day that you’re not alone. That you’ve done more good than you realize.”

For the first time in days, Monty’s eyes glisten—but it isn’t just sorrow. It’s relief. Recognition. A small spark of hope.

“Alright,” he whispers, voice raw. “I… I’ll try.” And in that moment, hope becomes a shared lifeline.