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If he was to say that he resents what happened to him, it would be something of an understatement.
A few months ago he’d been… Well, not happy, but he was okay. Moving on from Megan wouldn’t be easy, but eventually, maybe, he would. Eventually, maybe, they could get past the awkwardness revolving around their relationship and maybe even find some sort of common ground. Maybe even form some kind of friendship or whatever people did when they stopped hurting over eachother.
Maybe.
Maybes don’t matter anymore. Maybe he could’ve been happy one day, but not now. Now he’s stuck in this moment with a body that isn’t his. Half surprised they hadn’t stamped a Sarif Industries logo on his face, just to remind him who to thank every day for the privilege of still being alive. Just to remind him who he belongs to.
He barely even notices when he smashes the mirror for a second time since he’s been back home. His arms move faster than he’s used to and he hates it. Hates all of this. Wishes to fucking God they’d killed him in that attack, and then hates himself a bit more for thinking like that.
Because he is lucky to be alive. So many people died that day, and yeah, he never would’ve consented to this. (They’d told him the day he came out that he didn’t need anywhere near this much tech, but Sarif insisted on it.) But nevertheless, coming out of all that still walking. Still breathing. It was a luxury a lot of people didn’t have.
Funny how that didn’t make things any better.