I didn't mean to hurt them.
But intention didn't erase consequence.
The corridor narrowed as we walked on. The walls got closer. The lights slightly lowered. The air shifted—colder, quieter, as if the hallway itself were absorbing our heightened emotions.
Behind me, the twins moved in perfect silence.
My stomach twisted with the kind of nausea that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with knowing I'd broken something I couldn't fix.
I wanted to turn around.
Wanted to say,I'm sorryorI didn't mean it like thatorplease don't hate me.
But every possible apology felt worse than saying nothing at all.
I shouldn’t have told them what I thought.
It was thestoryI'd built around my reasoning that truly hurt them.
The one where a child took a blade and carved himself open to match his brother's trauma. Where their love was also shared mutilation. Where being identical meant no one had to carry their pain alone.
God, what kind of childhood leaves scars like that?
My throat burned.
I should have kept my mouth closed.
But my stubborn ass wanted to know if I was right.
Are you happy now?
I kept my eyes forward, following Hiro's steady pace, but my mind was stuck back in that moment—the way Yuki's jaw had worked without sound, the way Aki had looked away first, fingers touching that scar like it still hurt after all these years.
My chest felt too tight. I focused on breathing—in through my nose, out through my mouth—trying to steady the sick churn in my stomach.
There was no more fun conversation about Scooby-Doo or anything else. The twins remained silent and guarded while Hiro kept my pace with a strained expression—probably doing damage control in his head, figuring out how to manage the Tiger who'd just emotionally gut-punched his brothers and most loyal killers.
I’ll have to make this right somehow.
My fingers curled into fists at my sides.
I wouldn't apologize right now because anything I said right now would sound like an excuse, and they didn't deserve that.They deserved space. Time. The dignity of processing what I'd said without me hovering over them like some guilty, hand-wringing mess.
So I kept walking.
Kept my mouth shut.
Kept hoping that somehow, eventually, they'd understand I hadn't meant to weaponize their trauma.
I'd just been too honest about what I saw.
Alright. I’ll fix this later.
We turned the corner—and my guilt was immediately replaced by something else entirely.
When I saw the first massive painting on the wall, I stopped dead.
Horror shot through my chest.
