A/N: Poor Reyes. I hated her so much, and then in this one scene, I pitied her.
The room is full of people you can't trust.
The light is too bright, then too dim. It's dying. You're dying.
You don't believe in God. If you did, you don't think four hours of remorse would be able to make up for four decades of a life lived only for yourself.
All you can think (and it fills your vision and your ears and your mouth, more than the room and the blood and the dying light) is, she's safe. She's safe.
Four hours, not long enough to remember you loved her.
Under thirty seconds, and the bullets keep coming.