Read something angsty, so now im feeling angsty and i wanna write something angsty featuring my favorite angsty boy Hero

This takes place in the early years of Hero's comeback as a general, perhaps one or two years after Inherited.

-

His hands felt sticky.

The all too familiar stench of blood overwhelmed his senses. He didn't need to look down to see what were on his fingers. He was standing in the castle, or what seemed to be left of it. The air was filled with smoke, and Hero could feel the heat coming in from one of the hallways.

The throne was behind him. He was unarmed. He wasn't even in uniform. He was in rebellion gear, flimsy and not that perfect for fighting. In front of him, bodies lay still and unmoving. Most of them had turned over, probably faces he will have difficulty recognizing.

Some bodies stuck out. He knew those clothes, that hair. Those blank, cloudy eyes staring right at him. He could hear whispers of them mocking him.

You failed to protect us. Now we're all dead.

He could feel his heart grow heavier with each name he assigned to each bloody and cold face. Peter, Dianne, Ivan, Kaleb, Darryl, Noah, Markus... It all became too much and Hero turned around, only to face something that truly broke him.

Jeb, with a royal cape draped over his shoulders, lying dead on the throne. The crown sat awkwardly on his hair. Dried blood surrounded his mouth and his chest. He wanted to reach out, but a hand shot out and grabbed it harshly.

It burnt, hotter than lava. He couldn't scream. He found himself unable to. He only turned, watching that hand extend to an arm, to a body, to a face. His father, standing proud and tall and menacing over him. The smell of alcohol replaced the stench of blood and smoke.

His father's nails were digging deep into his arm, and drew blood. He couldn't move. He saw arms snake around his father's shoulders, and Hero saw a tall woman rise from behind his father. Her hair color was familiar because he had it too.

Usually he'd be overjoyed to see his mother again. However his mother's right side of her face was charred and black. All the scents started to mix and Hero wanted to vomit. They were speaking in rapid Swedish to him, and somehow them talking in his native language started to scare him more.

His hand was released and he fell back, on top of a body. Gulping, he scrambled off it, to look up and see his parents gone and one man standing in their place.

"You killed them all, little hero. What a monster you are."

Hero gasped, and stared into Derrek's eyes. They narrowed dangerously as he grinned wide. He started to chuckle slowly, and it built up to a menacing laugh. Hero looked around him.

The bodies, he killed them. His fingers were sticky. Their blood. On his fingers. He murdered them, they're gone because of him. He's a monster. That's what they all think.

A monster, a murderer. Some broken, pathetic piece of shit man who didn't deserve the forgiveness of-

Hero shot up, his fingers scrambling to get the pistol he laid next to him. His finger was ready at the trigger as he scanned the room. His breathing was ragged and the rise and fall of his chest was becoming too much to bear. Slamming the pistol down, he put his head in his hands and inhaled shaky breaths.

He should have never fallen asleep. Once his breathing was settled, he raised his head. He fell asleep doing some paperwork the previous night. He was still at his desk after all, and in his uniform. He found his pocketwatch in a drawer and checked the time. Still pretty early, his shift doesn't start until another two hours.

He slowly stood to his feet. He cursed at the ache in his knees and shoulders. He dragged himself to the bathroom. A cold shower could help.

Even if he knew he was going to have a challenging day.

-

The shower did nothing but give him a quiet place to think too much. He was about to finish creating a wonderful masterplan on killing himself when he abruptly ended the water. Two quick spells later and he's dry in a brand new training outfit. His dog tags were cold against his chest when he tucked them in his shirt.

He stared at himself in the mirror. His concealment charms must have rubbed off when he slept. He briefly thought of carving the charm into his skin permanently, but dismissed the thought. He took a moment to take in his own face. Still looking like a young man in his 20s as usual. He wonders what he would look like in his 30s, or maybe even at his current age, his 50s.

His eyes were normal, half-lidded and ready to stare a soldier into tears. No stubble. He can't grow anything. He doesn't know why. In fact, his legs and arms have always been bare of hair. His skin was as smooth as a rich lady who regularly shaved herself. Save for his hands, feet and scars. He carefully observed his hands under the gloves.

They were calloused from years of handling weapons. It was why he started wearing gloves. He didn't want them looking too nasty. Nails trimmed, no tan lines. His feet were calloused too. His boots may have tough soles but he has been on the run quite a lot. Not to mention that bear trap incident all those years ago. His foot was still heavily scarred. It was ugly, with light pink and jagged lines all over.

The scars all over his body each had their own story. He had quite the few bullet wounds, cuts from blades. The ugly scar on his neck that killed him, he hated that scar the most. It almost reached all the way around. That bastard could have beheaded him. He didn't bother concealing the scars on his arms. It was better, honestly. One look at some of the bad ones can tell you to not fuck with him.

Hero then looked at his hair. Soft, golden under the light as usual, though not blond. He reached the back of his head. It was getting long. He wanted to grow it out though, so he left it alone and left the bathroom.

He geared himself up, strapping a pistol sheath to his leg and his katana sheath on the other. He also fixed up his desk, and petted Erin, who was lounging on his bed, before leaving.

-

Hero stopped outside the kitchens. He could hear the cooks inside bustling about. Nice scents reached his nose and Hero breathed them in deeply. Something inside him purred when he could smell berries.

No. You don't deserve it.

He continued walking.

-

Another punch.

Harder. You don't want to be weak, don't you?

Hero pulled his hand back and punched the magic simulation harder. The no-faced man's head swung from the punch, and fake blood spurted from his face. Hero's knuckles ached and was split open.

Hero had went to the sparring hall to create an unarmed fight simulation with magic. He made his four opponents big, strong, thickset men who could pack a punch. Soldiers using the hall had stopped and was observing their general.

That's right. You're the general. Don't let them down.

Hero felt his legs give out from under him when the last opponent behind him kick him. He landed awkwardly and painfully but sprung back to his feet, staring at eyes that did not exist.

He could feel eyes on him.

Yes, and they see right through. They think you're weak. They think you're a monster. They think you should be locked away to rot in a dungeon.

Hero saw the opportunity to duck the punch coming for him, but he made no move and let himself soar back at the harsh punch to his cheek.

He spat out blood onto the sand.

Maybe not a dungeon. Maybe they want to take turns torturing you. Take away your dignity, your image, your reputation. Maybe other people will join in.

Hero sprang with a roar, hands tightening around his opponent's throat. Opponents in simulations had no faces, but suddenly he saw a number of faces. All coming too fast.

Mamma, his father, Peter, Dianne, Ivan, Kaleb, Noah, Markus...

More faces.

Adam, Ty, Jason, Seto, Jeb, Steve...

Himself.

The one true monster. The monster who didn't deserve to live. Who needed to die a slow, painful death.

So he squeezed and snarled at his own face, finding joy in strangling the air out of himself.

The body disappeared. All opponents defeated. Simulation ended.

Hero felt eyes on him.

I'm a monster.