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Summary
He thought killing him would free himself of the misfortune that was being haunted by that ominous steel mask, those soulless optics, that foreboding voice. No, Shroud trailed behind him now. What was once the twisted lust that was having a nemesis, morphed into something so much worse. Shroud was his nightmares. Shroud was his blood, his sweat, his tears. His very essence had melted into Robert’s shadow the moment he died at his hands, forever a phantom at his back, mocking him for instituting death, for playing God.
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Robert is struggling with the guilt of taking a life. He thinks he's got it all figured out: drown in work until the blaring sirens in his skull fade to a whisper. The Z-Team doesn't notice his unhealthy behavior. Flambae does.