This was not the time to acknowledge the pain. There were jobs to be done, missions to be held, wounds to be healed. Just not his.

If Cayde were the one that was hurt—actually, physically hurt —it would be simpler. He could state his pain, laugh it off, drink alcohol. Shoot. Die. Revive and then feel better. And would his partners help? Hell, they wouldn't even know. Maybe that's why he confides in you.

He scoffed at your words, "We used to go out, kill bad guys. Boom, boom, boom. No problem. We accidentally kill the wrong person? "Aw shoot. Bummer. That stinks." Then we move on." He shrugged, taking a drink from his glass.