Briar’s POV
Watching failure unfold in real ti changes everything.
This isn’t so sanitized report I can review later. This isn’t statistics filtered through careful corporate language or delayed updates that soften the blow. This is blood pooled on gray concrete. This is the sharp, tallic sll that burns my nostrils before I can brace myself. This is a broken she-wolf curled into herself, trembling, her fists clenched so tight her knuckles have gone white as she tries to keep herself from completely falling apart.
The protections existed on paper.
They simply weren’t implented.
The truth hits like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. I remain frozen for several heartbeats, my brain desperately trying to push away what I’m seeing, searching for that professional detachnt I usually rely on. It doesn’t exist here. This isn’t so distant failure I can pass off to subordinates or wrap in bureaucratic explanations.
Her eyes find mine.
Not angry. Not begging.
Just empty.
That emptiness cuts deeper than rage would.
I drop to my knees because standing over her feels fundantally wrong.
A blanket appears in my hands. Soone calls my na, probably hoping to ground in the mont. I drape the fabric around her narrow shoulders, and my fingers betray with their trembling. Her skin feels ice-cold beneath my touch. She jerks away initially, then seems to surrender, as if she’s already accepted that fighting anything is pointless now.
The aftermath arrives with brutal efficiency. It always does.
Information floods in quickly. Who overlooked what warnings. Where the system collapsed. Which security team identified the threat and which one failed to respond. Every place where procedures existed but action didn’t follow. Every mont when soone assud their colleague would take responsibility. The paperwork tells the story clearly.
Ti stamps. Bureaucratic gaps. Silent breakdowns that seed innocent until they culminated in violence.
I had signed the policy changes.
I hadn’t ensured they beca reality.
The guilt strikes with surgical precision, lodging itself beneath my ribcage like a blade. At first, I handle it the way I always do. I compartntalize the pain. I pack my calendar tighter. I schedule additional oversight etings. I dissect every step of what went wrong, identifying exactly where I should have applied more pressure, where I should have verified instead of assuming.
Carrying this burden feels like maintaining control.
If I hold it close enough, perhaps I can prevent it from happening again.
Asher recognizes the signs before I acknowledge them myself. He always does. His initial attempts to help are gentle. A steadying touch on my arm when I stop moving mid-conversation. A soft inquiry that sounds casual but isn’t. An offer to take a break, to sit down, to drink sothing as if hydration could fix what’s broken.
I push back.
I insist I’m handling things fine. I explain there’s too much work pending. I point out this isn’t the appropriate ti for personal concerns. Every response contains truth. None of them are completely honest.
My silence deepens. My edges sharpen. The intensity that once helped make difficult decisions starts turning inward like a weapon. The she-wolf’s face haunts my sleep. I relive that mont when she understood that rescue had arrived too late to prevent damage, only fast enough to observe it. I rember how her posture collapsed, as if sothing vital inside her had finally surrendered.
Asher makes another attempt that evening.
"Briar," his voice stays calm and even when I don’t respond to his first attempt. "You don’t have to handle this by yourself."
I shake my head without eting his gaze. "I do if I’m responsible for allowing it."
"You didn’t cause her pain."
"I didn’t prevent it either."
The difference offers no comfort. It never has.
Results carry more weight than intentions. Everyone understands that fundantal truth.
He moves closer. I sense his presence even before his palm settles on my shoulder. My muscles tense automatically, as if physical contact might shatter whatever I’m still holding together through sheer willpower.
"Share this with ," he requests.
I can’t.
The pressure continues building regardless. It always does. Guilt doesn’t evaporate when ignored. It accumulates. It piles up until the balance shifts without warning and everything supporting it collapses.
The breaking point arrives quietly.
Not through screaming. Not through fury.
Simply through exhaustion.
I’m perched on the bed’s edge, still wearing my boots, staring at empty space, when it overwhelms . My breathing becos uneven. My shoulders drop. The ntal image I’ve been keeping at a distance suddenly rushes forward with devastating clarity, raw and unfiltered.
The weight of what I failed to prevent crashes down all at once. My carefully constructed defenses crumble. The professional distance I’ve maintained dissolves. What remains is just the stark reality that soone suffered because I wasn’t thorough enough, wasn’t vigilant enough, wasn’t good enough at the job I promised to do.
My hands cover my face as the first real tears co. Not the controlled response I might allow in public, but the deep, shaking kind that cos from a place I usually keep locked away. The kind that acknowledges what I’ve been refusing to face.
I failed her.
And no amount of policy revision or administrative restructuring can undo that fundantal truth.
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