Robert’s hands trembled as he examined his reflection in the cracked mirror. His face was a ruin. Blood streamed from jagged gashes where the porthole glass had carved deep into his flesh. His left eye was swollen shut, the surrounding skin bruised to a sickly purple. Jagged cuts spiderwebbed across his cheek, where shards of glass were still embedded, catching the flickering lantern light like grotesque jewels. His nose had clearly broken, crooked and bleeding, and a nasty gash ran along his scalp, matting his brown hair with blood.

His breath came in shallow gasps as he braced himself against the sink. The pain was excruciating, a sharp, unrelenting throb that seemed to pulse in time with his racing heart. He grimaced as he leaned closer, using trembling fingers to probe the wounds. A sharp sting made him flinch; a shard of glass was lodged just below his brow.

“No time for weakness,” he muttered to himself, though his voice wavered.

The ship’s infirmary was sparse, but Robert scavenged what he could: a dull knife for prying out the glass, thread and a needle for stitching, and a bottle of whiskey that would have to serve as an anaesthetic and antiseptic. He poured a generous amount of the whiskey over his wounds, hissing as the liquid burned its way into the open cuts. The sharp smell filled the room, almost masking the metallic tang of blood.

Sitting down heavily, he held the knife in his bloodied hand and raised it to his face. His reflection glared back at him, pale and ghostly.

“Just do it,” he whispered, closing his good eye.

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The first shard came out easily enough, but the next was deeper, buried just below his temple. Blood welled up around it as he pried it loose, his grip slipping on the knife’s hilt. He grunted through the pain, determined to keep going. Each shard he removed felt like a victory, though his vision blurred with agony and exhaustion.

When the last piece of glass clinked onto the table, Robert collapsed back in the chair, his breath ragged. His hands were slick with blood, making it difficult to thread the needle, but he managed. He began stitching the worst of the wounds, his fingers working with a surgeon’s precision despite the pain. The needle bit into his flesh, and he bit down on a piece of cloth to keep from crying out.

Every stitch felt like penance. For his arrogance. For his blindness to Willoughby’s danger. For not saving him. The image of Willoughby’s lifeless body haunted him, his mind replaying the Yuki Onna’s mocking laughter.

Willoughby.

As he worked, tears blurred his vision. His grief mixed with anger, and his anger mixed with guilt. He remembered Willoughby’s laugh, his smug smirk. Now, as he sat alone in this blood-soaked, wrecked cabin, the truth was undeniable.

Robert finished the last stitch and slumped forward, his forehead resting against the edge of the table. His wounds throbbed, his body aching from head to toe, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow ache in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into the empty room, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry, Willoughby.”

He forced himself to sit up, wiping at his tear-streaked face with the back of his hand. The Yuki Onna had taken everything from him–his lover, his pride, his safety. As Miura, she had taken his sister. But she hadn’t taken his will to fight. Not yet.

He stood, swaying slightly as the blood loss and exhaustion threatened to pull him under. But he steadied himself, his resolve hardening.

"You'll pay for this," he whispered, his voice raw. “For Willoughby, for Sabrina,” he growled low. "I swear!"

The ship creaked around him, the waves lapping against its hull like a distant heartbeat. Somewhere, out in the cold expanse of the sea, the Yuki Onna was waiting. And Robert would be ready. He would face her, not as a broken man, but as the storm she feared.