Still lost in his melancholy reverie, Logan paid no attention at all to any of the other patients, or the staff, as he sat, shoulders slumped, just staring at his hands. Those hands, the hands that had hurt, had killed so many, either by the will of others or by his own. Had he ever truly had his own will, though? Or had he always had his strings pulled, even when he thought he was acting for himself? He decided he would never truly know.

Logan was so far away in his own thoughts that he hadn't even picked up the familiar scent of his roommate as he approached. At the touch of a hand on his shoulder, he recoiled reflexively, bringing the arm closest to him up as if to block, before letting it drop as he realised who it belonged to. His eyes were sunken pools of despair, and he held the haunted look of one who had lost too much, too many times over. He met his friends eyes for less than a second, before deciding he couldn't look into them anymore for the time being. In truth, he didn't feel he was worthy of such. The nausea rolled in his stomach once more.

"Parker, I..." He trailed off, unsure of what to say. "It...it was bad." He wasn't usually the most articulate of people, but this was a step down, even for him. He stared down at his hands again, hanging limp in his lap, only this time not even seeing them. All he could see was blood, and broken bodies.