Matt sat alone in the hallway outside Ryan's room, his back against the wall, his hands shaking in a way he couldn't control.
He'd heard the choking sounds. The way Marcus gasped for air. The way Ryan's voice had gone cold and flat, utterly devoid of anything resembling human emotion. And then the switch, that jarring moment when Ryan came back and the horror flooded his features as he realized what he'd done.
Matt pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to steady his breathing.
This was his fault. Every single part of this, Ryan's fractured mind, the operation falling apart, traced back to decisions Matt had made twenty years ago.
He stood up and walked down the stairs, needing distance from that room, needing to think.
*Seven-year-old Ryan with a gun in his small hands. Matt standing behind him, voice steady and encouraging. "He was one of them, Ryan. He deserves to die."*
