Adam sat in a dimly lit tent, his hands buried in his hair as his breathing grew erratic. His heartbeat pounded against his skull, like a war drum beating to an unrelenting march. His entire body shook, his muscles tense with rage, fear, and confusion.

He had spent years—his whole life—building up his beliefs, forging them in the fires of pain and suffering. He had seen what humans did to his kind.

He lived it.

But now?

Now, that foundation was cracking, breaking apart at the seams, threatening to swallow him whole.

Memories surged.

Flashes of his childhood—of the mines.

Of his mother.

Of the whip.

Of Jacques Schnee's voice, barking orders through the intercoms, ensuring that the Faunus workers never forgot who owned them.

The suffocating air of the dust-filled tunnels.

The searing pain of his mother's scream when she collapsed from exhaustion—only for an SDC guard to kick her back to her feet.

The brands.

He had felt the hot iron pressed against his flesh.

The Schnee Dust Company had marked them—like cattle. Like property.

And the humans who stood by—who did nothing—were just as guilty.

His nails dug into his scalp, his body trembling as his mind waged war against itself.

Menagerie. Present Day.

He sat in his tent, the walls closing in.

His body burned with the need to do something. His fingers itched for his sword. He had slain countless humans before.

Why should this be any different?

Why should he hesitate?

And yet—

And yet.

He clenched his fists, veins bulging against his pale skin.

The images of Faunus laughing with humans. Faunus training alongside them. Trusting them.

He had watched them spar together, eat together, fight for each other.

It made him sick.

It made him angry.

It made him afraid.

"You look lost."

Sienna's words echoed in his mind, stabbing at him like daggers.

"Then maybe you need to stop fighting it... and start listening."

His breath hitched.

No.

He wouldn't listen. He wouldn't let himself be deceived.

This was a trick. A lie. A clever manipulation by humans to make them complacent.

To make them weak.

To make them forget the truth.

Faunus and humans would never be equals.

"Adam..."

A voice. Her voice.

He jerked his head up, eyes wide, searching.

For a moment, he swore he saw her—his mother.

Standing just inside his tent, wrapped in rags, her once-proud golden eyes now sunken and filled with sorrow.

"Why do you hate them so much?" she whispered.

Adam's breath hitched. His pulse pounded in his ears.

"They deserve it," he hissed.

She stepped closer, her frail figure illuminated by the candlelight.

"Do they?"

Adam flinched.

"They branded us," he snarled. "They owned us."

"Not all of them."

His vision blurred. His rage burned.

"They let it happen. They let us suffer!"

His mother—his hallucination—knelt before him, placing a trembling hand on his cheek.

"And what will your suffering change?"

Adam snapped.

He jerked away, standing so suddenly that the chair beneath him clattered to the ground.

His hands went for his sword—Wilt—gripping the hilt so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"You're not real," he growled, his voice shaking. "You're just a memory."

His mother only smiled sadly.

"Then why are you still listening?"

And just like that—

She was gone.

Adam stood there, chest heaving, his entire body trembling.

He felt hollow.

Like a beast with nothing left to hunt.

Like a warrior with no more wars to fight.

Like a man with no purpose.

The thoughts slithered back into his mind.

The thoughts of killing.

Killing the humans.

Killing the Faunus who stood with them.

Killing anyone who believed in this lie.

He could end this now.

He could make them pay.

And yet—

And yet...

His hands wouldn't move.

He squeezed the hilt of his sword until his muscles screamed—until his body begged him to release it.

But something stopped him.

Something he couldn't understand.

A whisper of doubt.

A memory of those same humans—Marines, soldiers, medics—protecting his people.

"What happens when we do?"

The question rang in his skull, over and over.

Adam let out a deep, shuddering breath.

For the first time in years, he was afraid.

Not of humans.

Not of death.

Not even of losing.

He was afraid of himself.

Because if he had been wrong about them—

Then what else had he been wrong about?

The tent was silent save for the flickering of a dim candle. The warm glow cast long, wavering shadows along the fabric walls, making the space feel smaller—trapped.

Adam stood before a small, cracked mirror mounted onto a wooden stand. Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and removed his mask, feeling the weight of it lift from his face.

He never removed his mask. Not in front of others. Not in front of himself.

But tonight, he had to see.

See what he had become.

The reflection staring back at him was both familiar and foreign.

The bloodied, scarred Schnee Dust Company brand was burned into his left eye socket—a sickening reminder of his past. His iris, once vibrant blue, had turned a pale, ghostly gray from the damage. The eyebrow above it was permanently singed, uneven and warped, contrasting against his untouched brown eyebrow on the right.

His face told the story of what he had endured, of the hell he had survived.

But as he stared, something... shifted.

The air in the tent grew thick. Heavy.

His reflection—his own face—twisted.

His left eye darkened, the scar becoming raw, fresh, as if the branding iron had just been pressed against his flesh. The reflection's lips curled into a cruel, knowing smirk.

"Look at you," it sneered.

Adam's breath hitched.

His hands trembled, but he did not look away.

The reflection tilted its head. The smirk widened. The scarred left side of its face was bleeding, dripping blackened blood that sizzled like acid as it hit the bottom of the mirror.

"Pathetic."

Adam's fingers curled into fists. His breathing grew shallow.

The reflection leaned in closer.

"You're afraid, aren't you?"

A shiver crawled up his spine.

"Afraid that all your rage, your hatred, your pain—" The voice was a hiss, low and poisonous. "—was for nothing."

Adam gritted his teeth, his pulse pounding like war drums in his skull.

"They've gotten to you." The reflection's voice dripped with venom, slithering into his mind like a creeping disease.

"You let them weaken you. You let them poison you."

Adam snapped.

He grabbed the wooden stand and slammed it against the mirror, shattering the glass into countless shards. The candlelight flickered violently, the broken pieces reflecting distorted, twisted versions of himself.

He panted, his chest heaving as he stared down at the fragments.

But the voice did not stop.

"You know I'm right."

The shards vibrated, their jagged edges glinting like teeth in the dim light.

"If you stop hating them... then what are you?"

Adam staggered back, his mind reeling.

"If you take away the rage, what's left of you, Adam?"

His legs hit the edge of his cot, and he collapsed onto it, gripping his head as if to physically tear the thoughts out of his skull.

"Nothing," the voice whispered. "Without your hate, you are nothing."

He gasped, his throat constricting as though unseen hands were wrapping around his neck. His vision blurred, his head pounded, and his skin burned as if the branding iron had returned.

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't think.

A nightmare while awake.

A living hell.

And then—

The tent flap rustled.

A voice, real this time, spoke softly.

"Adam?"

He jerked his head up, his eyes wide and wild.

Sienna Khan stood at the entrance, her sharp amber eyes filled with something he hadn't expected—concern.

Not anger.

Not disappointment.

Not contempt.

Just... concern.

Adam swallowed hard, trying to steady his breathing, his entire body still trembling.

She took a step inside, glancing at the shattered mirror on the ground. Her gaze flicked back to him.

"You're not sleeping, are you?"

Adam let out a ragged breath, rubbing his temples. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke.

"I don't sleep."

Sienna nodded, as if she already knew.

She stepped further inside, lowering herself onto a chair across from him.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, her voice came soft but firm.

"You saw something, didn't you?"

Adam's jaw clenched. He didn't answer.

Sienna exhaled, leaning forward. "What is it that you're afraid of, Adam?"

His entire body tensed.

Afraid.

He had never allowed himself to be afraid. Fear was a weakness. Fear was human.

But now?

Now, fear consumed him.

Because for the first time in his life—

He didn't know who he was anymore.

And that?

That was terrifying.

The atmosphere in the tent was thick with tension. The candlelight flickered wildly, casting jagged shadows over the shattered mirror shards scattered across the ground. Adam sat hunched forward on his cot, his body still trembling, his breathing erratic. Sienna watched him carefully, her amber eyes studying every movement, every subtle twitch of his fingers.

Then—

The tent flap rustled again.

Sienna's sharp ears caught the faintest shift in the air, and before she could question it, a figure stepped inside.

Captain Henry William Sherman.

His broad frame filled the entrance, his dark green MARPAT uniform pristine despite the humid air of Menagerie. His face was calm, unreadable, but his sharp eyes flicked immediately to the shattered mirror, then to Adam—taking in everything within seconds.

"Everything alright in here?" Sherman's voice was even, but there was an underlying weight to it.

Sienna raised an eyebrow. "How did you hear that?"

Sherman's gaze didn't leave Adam, who was now glowering at him with unfiltered hate.

"That's classified," Sherman replied simply.

Sienna narrowed her eyes but let it go. She knew better than to dig too deep into whatever classified secrets the humans were hiding. If they truly wanted Faunus dead, they wouldn't have sent men like him here to keep the peace.

Sherman took another step inside, then—without waiting for permission—pulled up a chair and sat directly in front of Adam.

For a moment, neither man spoke.

It was a battle of silence.

A contest of sheer willpower.

Adam's fists tightened, his entire body screaming with tension. The hatred in his stare was molten, burning. His breathing slowed, controlled, but Sherman could see the tremors in his fingertips.

He knew exactly what this was.

This wasn't just anger.

This was a man fighting against something far worse than any external enemy.

Adam Taurus was losing a war against himself.

Sherman exhaled through his nose, leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees. His movements were slow, deliberate—non-threatening.

"I know what you're seeing," Sherman said, voice calm, low. "I know what's clawing at your mind."

Adam's eye twitched. "Shut up."

Sherman didn't.

"Flashes of the past. Faces that won't leave. The feeling of burning steel pressed against your skin."

Adam's jaw clenched so tight Sherman swore he heard the creak of his teeth grinding.

Sherman leaned closer.

"You think it's anger," he said. "But it's not. It's fear."

Adam's glare darkened. His breathing was slower now, heavier.

"You're afraid," Sherman continued. "Afraid that everything you've believed in—everything you've fought for—might have been a lie."

"SHUT UP!"

Adam lunged.

It was fast—a predatory burst of speed fueled by sheer, unrelenting rage. His hand shot out, reaching for the hilt of Wilt, his crimson blade—

Only for Sherman to move faster.

In an instant, Sherman's hand clamped down on Adam's wrist like a vice, stopping the attack cold. His grip was ironclad, unyielding.

Adam froze.

The strength—the sheer force—behind that grip was inhuman.

Not Faunus-strong. Not trained-soldier-strong.

This was something else entirely.

Sherman's eyes—calm, yet piercing—locked onto his own.

And then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said—

"You don't want to do that."

Adam couldn't move.

Not because of the strength holding him in place—though it was unreal—but because of something else.

Something far worse.

He saw it.

For a brief moment—an instant—he saw it in Sherman's eyes.

A beast.

Not a man. Not a human.

Something far more dangerous.

The same thing he had seen in Grimm eyes.

The same thing he had seen in Ghira's stance.

It was the abyss staring back at him.

A man who had walked through hell and come out the other side.

Sherman let go of his wrist.

Adam staggered back, hand shaking. He felt cold. Not from fear of being physically beaten—no, he knew how to deal with that.

This was different.

It was the first time in years he had met a human whose presence unnerved him.

Sherman sat back down, not a hint of tension in his posture. It was almost casual.

Like he knew he'd won before it even started.

Adam hated that.

"I've been where you are," Sherman said, as if nothing had just happened. "The difference is, I didn't lose."

Adam was still breathing hard, his mind scrambling to regain control.

"You think you're strong because of your hatred," Sherman continued. "But what happens when that hatred eats you instead?"

Adam stared.

He couldn't answer.

Sherman leaned back in his chair, exhaling as if this entire conversation was just another day at the office.

"I'll tell you what happens," Sherman said, locking eyes with Adam one last time.

"You become a prisoner in your own mind."

The tent fell dead silent.

Adam's entire body felt numb.

Sienna, who had been watching the exchange with narrowed eyes, finally spoke.

"...What are you?" she asked, her voice low.

Sherman looked at her.

He smiled.

"Just a Marine, ma'am."

Adam felt his nails dig into his palms.

He had come to Menagerie thinking he would see Faunus suffering, being exploited. He had expected to find more reasons to fight, to hate.

Instead—

He had found something far worse.

A human he couldn't understand.

And that?

That scared him more than anything else.

The silence in the tent stretched, heavy and suffocating. Adam still felt the lingering pressure on his wrist where Sherman had grabbed him, his mind racing in a thousand directions. The human's presence—it was unnerving, like an immovable force that refused to be understood.

Sherman sat back, rolling his shoulders like nothing had happened, as if restraining Adam had required no effort at all. The captain's eyes studied the Faunus in front of him, but there was no mockery, no smugness. Just... a quiet, measured intensity.

"You think you're the only one who grew up suffering?" Sherman finally spoke, his voice low. "You think pain gives you a free pass to justify everything?"

Adam's teeth clenched. "You don't—"

Sherman cut him off.

"My father was a Marine. Sergeant William Sherman. My mother? A drunk. An abusive whore who took out every ounce of her frustration on me the second my father was deployed."

Adam's glare faltered, if only for a fraction of a second.

Sherman leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. "He was always gone. My mother hated that. She hated him. But most of all? She hated me—because I looked exactly like him."

The candlelight flickered. The shadows stretched across Sherman's face, highlighting the hardened lines of a man who had lived through hell.

"I learned to fight not because I wanted to," he continued, "but because I had to. If I didn't move fast enough, if I didn't see the hit coming... I got the shit beat out of me." His voice was disturbingly calm, but there was an undercurrent of something else beneath it. "For things as small as leaving my shoes by the door instead of in the closet. For forgetting to say 'yes, ma'am' instead of 'yeah.' Hell, for existing."

Adam didn't say anything. Neither did Sienna or Ghira. The latter entered a few minutes earlier.

Sherman tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving Adam's. "You think you know pain, Taurus? Try getting beaten black and blue by the person who's supposed to protect you." His lips curled into something cold. "Try waking up every day and wondering if today's the day you finally piss her off too much and she buries you in the backyard."

Adam swallowed but said nothing.

"She finally got caught sleeping around." Sherman let out a breath that sounded more like a bitter laugh. "Divorced. My father took me back in, but by then? The damage was done."

Sienna's expression softened just slightly, but Sherman wasn't done.

"Fast forward a few years. I enlisted. Followed my old man's footsteps, hoping—praying—I could do something right with my life. That I could make something of myself." His fingers curled into fists, his knuckles going white. "Then came the Second Korean War."

Adam's ears twitched. Sienna and Ghira leaned in slightly.

Sherman's breathing slowed. His voice dropped lower.

"I was deployed in one of the many meat-grinders the Koreans threw at us," he said. "My father? He was stationed somewhere else. A different battlefield. I wasn't there, but I saw it."

His eyes flickered then.

A faint glow of deep green.

Chem-Y's side effect.

A low hum resonated in the tent as his emotions spiked.

Adam felt the shift in the air—the same way a soldier senses an incoming storm before it hits.

Sienna, ever the tactician, immediately picked up on the way Sherman's body tensed, like he was reliving something long buried.

"I saw the cloud." His voice was quiet, but it cut through the tent like a blade. "Miles away. I saw the fucking mushroom cloud when it happened."

Adam's blood ran cold.

Sienna's breath caught in her throat. "Mushroom cloud?" she echoed.

Sherman didn't elaborate.

He didn't need to.

The look in his eyes said it all.

"They called it an 'accident,'" Sherman muttered. "A 'misfire.' Whatever helped them sleep at night. But it didn't change what happened." He finally looked up, his piercing gaze locking onto Adam's. "Fifty-thousand troops. My father included. Gone in an instant."

Adam sat completely still.

Fifty. Thousand.

Gone.

Not in battle. Not in some ordinary explosion.

But in something far, far worse.

Sherman exhaled, his voice turning flat, hollow. "And you know what the worst part was?"

Neither Adam nor Sienna answered.

Sherman's glowing green eyes hardened.

"I was fighting in another part of the country while it happened." His fingers tightened on his knees. "I had no idea. I just saw the cloud. I didn't even know my father was there until hours later."

The room was dead silent.

Even Ghira, who had remained largely passive, now looked stunned.

Sherman sat back, exhaling as he ran a hand through his hair. The green glow in his eyes slowly dimmed.

"So don't sit there and pretend like pain is exclusive to you, Taurus." His voice was still low, but there was an edge—like a blade being sharpened. "You don't have a monopoly on suffering. You don't get to act like you're the only one who's lost everything."

Adam didn't respond.

For the first time in years, his mind was utterly blank.

His entire life, he had told himself that only the Faunus knew what true pain was. That only his people had suffered under human hands. That no human could ever understand what it meant to be broken, discarded.

Yet here was a man—this Marine—who had lived a life just as cruel.

And despite it all...

He hadn't used his pain to justify hatred.

He hadn't let it consume him.

Sherman had found purpose instead.

And Adam?

Adam had spent his whole life drowning in rage.

His hands trembled.

His breath was shaky.

Because for the first time in his entire goddamn life—

He didn't know if he could win this fight.

Sherman gave him a pre-written note to a group therapy for both the UN troops and the White Fang that are here in Menagerie.

Adam stared at the folded note in his hands, his grip tight but unsure. He had faced death a thousand times over. He had fought, bled, and killed for a cause he had believed in without hesitation. Yet now, he hesitated—his body and mind at war with each other.

Sherman, leaning back in his chair, simply watched him. The Marine's green-glowing eyes had dimmed back to their natural brown, but the weight of his words still lingered in the air.

Sienna crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. "You should go," she said simply.

Adam scoffed. "What, so some human can poke around in my head? No thanks."

Ghira, who had remained silent for most of the conversation, finally spoke. "This isn't about humans or Faunus, Adam. It's about whether or not you want to get better."

Adam gritted his teeth. "There's nothing wrong with me."

Sienna's sharp eyes locked onto him. "Isn't there?"

The question cut deeper than he expected.

She leaned forward slightly. "Three days ago, I found you curled up in a tent, gripping your head like you were trying to rip your own thoughts out. You haven't been sleeping. You're snapping at people who don't deserve it. And that mirror?" She gestured toward the shattered remains on the floor. "That wasn't just anger. That was you losing control."

Adam felt his nails dig into his palms. "I—"

"You're drowning, Adam," she interrupted, her voice softer now. "And you're too damn stubborn to reach for a lifeline."

He hated how much her words stung.

Ghira stepped forward, arms crossed over his broad chest. "We're not telling you to go because we think you're weak." He met Adam's glare head-on. "We're telling you to go because you need to know that you're not alone in this."

Adam opened his mouth to argue, but then—

"I go."

Sienna's admission caught him completely off guard.

His head snapped toward her. "What?"

She sighed, rubbing her temples. "The therapy sessions. I go."

That single sentence derailed every expectation Adam had.

Sienna Khan—Leader of the White Fang. The most feared Faunus revolutionary. A woman who had led countless battles and never once shown weakness—

She went to therapy?

"I do it privately," she clarified, already predicting his thoughts. "And I won't pretend I enjoy it. But it helps."

Ghira nodded. "She's right. It helps more than you'd think."

Adam felt like the walls were closing in on him. The Sienna Khan was admitting she needed help? That she was willing to sit in a room and talk about her struggles with a human?

Sherman watched him carefully, giving him space to process it all. Then, without a word, he tapped his index finger against the note Adam still held.

"The doc is from Sweden," Sherman finally said. "Name's Doctor Erik Holtz. Civilian psychologist. No military background. No allegiances. Just a man who's been helping people crawl out of the abyss for the past thirty years."

Adam's grip on the paper tightened.

Sherman stood up, adjusting his uniform. "Session's tomorrow morning. 0900." He gave Adam a long look before adding, "It's your choice."

With that, he turned and exited the tent, leaving Adam alone with Sienna and Ghira.

The silence stretched.

Sienna tilted her head. "Well?"

Adam exhaled sharply. He wanted to refuse, to storm out and prove to them that he didn't need this. That he was still the same Adam Taurus who could take the world on his shoulders and keep moving forward.

But deep down—

He knew he was lying to himself.

He clenched his jaw. "...I'll think about it."

It wasn't a yes.

But it wasn't a no, either.

Sienna nodded, satisfied. Ghira gave a small, approving grunt before stepping out, leaving Adam alone.

For a long moment, Adam simply stood there, staring down at the note in his hands.

A part of him still screamed to tear it apart.

But another part of him—

The part that was tired of drowning—

Carefully folded the paper and tucked it into his jacket.

The next morning, Adam got to the location where the group therapy is held at a building. When he entered a Menagerie Guard told him to leave any and all weapons with them. Adam looked behind the Faunus and saw a weapons that is stored with the names of it's owners. He turns in his weapon Wilt and Blush and walked in the large room where the group therapy is just starting.

Adam's steps were slow and deliberate as he entered the large room, the air thick with a quiet tension that made his skin crawl. He hated this. Hated the vulnerability of walking into an unknown space without his weapons. Without his mask. Without his armor of anger and purpose.

The room itself was simple—dimly lit with a semi-circle of chairs, some already occupied by Faunus and humans alike. A few familiar faces from the White Fang's Vale branch were among them, their expressions unreadable. Others, presumably UN troops or Menagerie civilians, sat in casual postures, as if this wasn't the most absurd gathering in the history of Remnant.

At the front, standing near a wooden table, was a tall, middle-aged man with slicked-back blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore no uniform, no military insignia—just a simple gray dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His presence was commanding, yet strangely non-threatening.

Dr. Erik Holtz.

The man who was supposedly meant to fix him.

Adam bit back a scoff.

Holtz turned as Adam stepped in, his gaze calm and unreadable. He gave a small nod of acknowledgment but didn't call him out or make a spectacle of his arrival.

That, at least, was a relief.

Adam hesitated near the entrance, glancing toward an empty chair near the back. If he had to be here, he would damn well keep his distance.

As he took his seat, Holtz clasped his hands together and spoke in a measured, steady tone.

"Good morning, everyone," he began, his accent distinctly Northern European. "I see some new faces today, which is always good." His eyes briefly flickered toward Adam before continuing. "For those who are joining us for the first time, I am Doctor Erik Holtz. This is a safe space. Whatever is said here, stays here. No ranks, no titles, no past grudges."

Adam felt his jaw tighten slightly at the words. Safe space. There was no such thing.

Holtz gestured toward the room. "Let's start with a check-in. If you feel comfortable, say your name and how you're doing today."

Adam sank deeper into his chair.

One by one, the others introduced themselves. Some were Faunus from the White Fang who had left the cause behind, others were Menagerie civilians affected by war and discrimination. A few UN troops spoke too—men and women who had seen battlefields beyond Remnant, who had lost friends and struggled to reintegrate into a world that no longer made sense to them.

Then, all eyes turned toward him.

Adam clenched his fists.

Holtz didn't push. He simply gave a small nod. "You don't have to share if you're not ready."

Adam exhaled through his nose, refusing to meet anyone's gaze. "Adam," he said simply.

No more. No less.

There was no point pretending he was fine.

Holtz accepted the answer without question.

The session continued, shifting into a discussion. People spoke about their struggles—about war, guilt, loss, anger. Some talked about the nightmares that never left them, the way old wounds never truly healed.

Adam remained silent, arms crossed. He wasn't here to spill his soul to strangers.

Then—

"I used to think revenge would fix everything."

The words came from a Faunus sitting two seats away from him. A younger man, wolf ears twitching slightly as he spoke.

Adam turned his head slightly.

The wolf Faunus—Kellen—glanced down at his hands. "After the SDC raids, after everything they did to my family, I thought... if I just made them pay, it would stop hurting." His voice wavered, but he pushed through. "But it didn't. It just made me angrier. And the more I fought, the more I lost myself."

Adam's grip on his arms tightened.

Kellen looked up. "I still don't know if I made the right choices. But... I know that I can't keep going down that path."

Silence filled the room.

Adam swallowed thickly.

Because for the first time since stepping foot into this pathetic gathering—

He heard someone describe his own thoughts.

Holtz leaned forward slightly, his tone as steady as ever. "Revenge is seductive. It gives us purpose. It makes the pain feel justified." He let the words settle before adding, "But it never truly satisfies, does it?"

Kellen shook his head.

Adam looked away, suddenly feeling exposed.

Holtz let the silence linger before shifting the conversation, allowing others to speak.

Adam remained silent for the rest of the session.

He didn't know why he stayed until the very end.

But he did.

And that unsettled him more than anything else.

The next day, Adam found himself back at the group therapy session. He told himself it was just curiosity—nothing more. He wasn't here to participate. He wasn't here to heal.

He just wanted to listen.

And yet, despite his own justifications, the moment he stepped through the doors, he felt that same strange unease settle in his chest. It wasn't fear. It wasn't even anger.

It was something else.

Something unfamiliar.

Adam wordlessly handed his weapons over to the Menagerie Guard at the entrance, then made his way to the same chair at the back of the room. He kept his posture rigid, his expression unreadable as the session began.

Holtz, ever the patient observer, acknowledged his presence with a slight nod but said nothing. No comments about returning. No questions. Just simple acceptance.

The discussion started with a woman—a Faunus, probably in her early thirties, her feline ears twitching slightly as she spoke.

"I used to be part of a radical cell in Mistral," she admitted. "We thought we were doing the right thing. We thought we were striking back against those who had oppressed us."

Adam's jaw tightened slightly.

She continued, her voice carrying quiet regret. "But at some point... I stopped seeing the people we hurt as individuals. It became us versus them. Every human was guilty. Every Faunus who disagreed with us was a traitor. I didn't even realize how far I had gone until... until I saw children get caught in the crossfire."

A heavy silence settled over the group.

Adam stared at the floor, forcing his hands to remain still.

She let out a shaky breath. "That's when I knew. If we became the very thing we were fighting against... then what was the point?"

Holtz nodded, his voice calm as he asked, "And how do you feel about it now?"

She exhaled slowly. "I don't know. Some days, I feel like I don't deserve peace. Other days... I think about what I can do to make sure no one else falls down the same path."

Adam hated how familiar her words sounded.

How much they echoed the thoughts that had plagued him since arriving in Menagerie.

He shut his eyes briefly, his breathing steady but controlled.

Others spoke next—humans who had once fought themselves, Faunus who had once fought humans. Some were soldiers, some were former radicals, some were just civilians caught in the endless cycles of violence and fear.

Adam listened.

Not just to their words, but to the weight behind them.

One soldier, a man with a hardened face and a thick Slavic accent, spoke about the brutal campaigns his unit had endured in another world—a world Adam knew nothing about.

"We were told to clear out insurgents," the soldier murmured, his gaze distant. "Didn't realize until later... that 'insurgents' meant anyone who resisted. Including families." He swallowed. "We followed orders. We thought we were doing the right thing. But now... I wonder."

Adam felt his chest tighten.

We thought we were doing the right thing.

How many times had he told himself that?

How many times had he used that as an excuse?

His fingers curled slightly against his knee.

The session continued, but Adam remained silent.

By the time it ended, he was the first to stand. The others lingered, exchanging quiet words, but he moved straight to the exit. The Menagerie Guard handed him back his weapons without question.

But just as he turned to leave, a voice stopped him.

"You listened today."

Adam stiffened.

He turned his head slightly, meeting Holtz's calm, steady gaze. The doctor hadn't moved from his seat, but his eyes held a knowing glint.

Adam's lips curled into a sneer. "I was just passing the time."

Holtz simply nodded. "Of course."

Adam hated how unreadable the man was.

Without another word, he left.

But that night, as he sat alone in his quarters, staring at the ceiling—

He couldn't silence the voices in his head.

We thought we were doing the right thing.

And for the first time in years—

He wasn't sure if he still believed it.