"Grant, I'm sorry…"
Once the mechanical door closed, the woman apologized, her face laced with guilt.
She was left with no other choice at the moment.
"If you stepped out, you would've died. I… No, the people can't afford to lose you, too."
Despite this, Grant stood motionless—his shoulders rose up and down from hard breathing, as the weight of what he had seen and done dawned upon him. Dhamar died, died because of his own stubbornness.
But that didn't stop the guilt from drowning Grant's heart.
Had he done something, helped more, Dhamar could've survived.
Thinking about this is bad for him, it would only plunge him deep into a rabbit hole of regret.
Even so, he couldn't help it.
Dhamar died. His best friend from birth died.
Despite his chaotic emotions, Grant turned and went to the young man and knelt down.
"Are you hurt?" He asked.
"N-No…" the young man answered while avoiding eye contact. "I'm perfectly fine."
