𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐋 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆, the air heavy with silence and tension. I sit motionless on the edge of the bed, staring at the blank wall as if it holds answers I can't find. Monica's house isn't far behind us—an hour at most—but it feels like it's been longer than that since we left. Sam sits beside me, his quiet presence an attempt to offer comfort. He doesn't say a word, which I appreciate, though it doesn't help much. I'm stuck, trapped in the endless replay of what happened, the moment I pulled the trigger, the moment it all went wrong. The adrenaline that kept me moving earlier has drained, leaving behind the sharp sting of failure.
I missed the shot. That bastard with the yellow eyes disappeared, just like that, right after I fired. The bullet, one of the few we had left, wasted. The thought clings to me, an ache I can't shake. It wasn't just a mistake. It feels bigger than that, heavier. John and Isaac trusted me, believed I could do this, and I blew it. Their expectations press down on me, a weight I can't escape, reminding me of every moment I've ever fallen short. Isaac's voice echoes in my mind, harsh and unforgiving, a shadow of the life I've tried to leave behind. I'm not sure which hurts more—his disappointment or the fact that I still care about it.
