It should have never ended this way. It was all his fault. Only his.

(Nothing new there).

His father had been right. He did everything wrong. He wasn't able to learn from his own mistakes. He just kept doing them.

Again and again and again.

And it was always someone else to pay the price.

His mother left. Because of him.

His father kicked him out. It was his own fault.

Angela's family rejected her. Because of him.

His family died. It was all his fault.

And now... this.

He had promised himself to stop doing mistakes. He was sure that he had finally learnt from them. But he was wrong.

He had given into temptation, and once again someone else was paying the price.

Because he kept doing mistakes. He kept refusing getting the lesson right. And people who did so... needed punishing.

And punished he had been. With other blood on his hands.

Her blood.

The doctor left the OR, his once white overall covered with blood, so much blood that even at six feet apart he could smell the iron. It was a rich smell, revolting, and the mere sight made him wish to threw up then and there. But he stubbornly refused to. He had to be strong. There was still a chance... after all, she had been alive when he had found her. Maybe, just maybe... for once...

And then, the doctor's gaze refused to meet his own, and the man just shook his head. And in that moment, he knew.

She had lost her fight.

He had lost her.

Because he was selfish, arrogant, stupid, he couldn't stop doing mistakes, couldn't learn from them...

He closed his fists around the piece of paper, his hold so strong he left half-moon indentations on his own skin.

When Cho took if away from him, the black ink was smeared by blood- his and hers- and only the first line was readable at the naked eye.

Dear Mister Jane...