As the UA breached the veil of hyperspace, the triumphant grin that had stretched across Jet's face faltered and dissolved, leaving behind a stark, sobering clarity. The pilots in those TIEs were merely doing what they had to do to survive—a reality that stung with a poignant truth. Jet could have taken their lives, but to what end? He lingered in this moment of contemplation, sifting through the fragments of his life, each piece a testament to battles fought and choices made. A slow, methodical sigh escaped his lips, akin to the hiss of an airlock, as he released his tumultuous thoughts, allowing them to drift away like so much space debris after a skirmish.

Descending the ladder, each metallic clang of his boots against the rungs reverberated through the hollow corridors, echoing the doubts and uncertainties that swirled within him. The sound seemed to pulse with the rhythm of his heart, each beat a reminder of the existential weight he bore. Upon reaching the deck, he moved towards the cockpit, his steps heavy and deliberate, as though each one carried the burden of his reflections. The corridor's dim lighting cast elongated shadows that danced mockingly, mirroring the inner turmoil he fought to contain.

As he neared the cockpit door, Jet paused, drawing in a deep, cleansing breath. The exhale was forced, a tangible effort to reclaim his composure and bury the introspection that threatened to unravel him. Stepping through the threshold, he donned his familiar facade, the mask of resolve and duty, even as the echoes of his doubts lingered, whispering through the vast emptiness of space.

As he attempted to step inside, Jet faltered once more, his gaze falling to the cold, unyielding steel floor. The weight of the facade he needed to uphold seemed almost insurmountable. He lingered for a moment longer, the silence amplifying his inner turmoil, before stepping back and resolving to retreat to his quarters. He decided he would face the others later, once he had composed himself.

Before heading back to his cramped quarters, Jet retrieved his rifle from where he had left it. Returning it to its designated resting place was more than just a habit; it was a meticulous ritual, a methodical way to reorder his mind and thoughts. Each action was deliberate, serving as a way to compartmentalize the chaos within, much like stowing away pieces of himself that he wasn't ready to confront.

Jet stood and walked over to the shelf. He picked up the picture and gently brushed his thumb over its surface, tracing the familiar contours. "Another job done, Rexa... Thanks for watchin' out for me," he murmured, his voice soft but steady, imbued with a quiet calmness. He placed the picture back on the shelf with a deliberate and purposeful exhale, a moment steeped in reflection and the bittersweet remembrance of a love lost.

As Jet returned the picture to its place on the shelf, a tidal wave of emotions surged within him, breaking through the dam of his carefully constructed facade. He clutched the edge of the shelf, knuckles turning white, as memories of Rexa flooded back with an overwhelming intensity. She had always been his anchor, the steady presence that assured him he was on the right path. With her by his side, every mission, every choice, had felt justified. Her unwavering belief in him had been his guiding star, illuminating even the darkest moments.

His breathing became ragged, and he felt a crushing weight on his chest, as though the very air had turned to lead. He sank to his knees, the cold steel floor biting through his fatigues, grounding him in the stark reality of his solitude. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision as he fought to suppress the sobs that threatened to escape. The relentless ache of loss, guilt, and loneliness gnawed at his insides, each pang a reminder of the battles he could never truly leave behind.

Without Rexa, doubt crept into every corner of his mind. He questioned the righteousness of his actions, the moral compass she had once kept aligned now spinning wildly. Jet buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with the effort to hold back his emotions. But it was futile; a heart-wrenching sob tore through him, resonating through the otherwise silent quarters. The sound was raw, primal, an unfiltered outpouring of grief and pain that he had kept locked away for too long.

He stayed there for a while, letting the tears flow freely, each drop a release of the pent-up anguish that had been festering within him. As the storm of emotions began to subside, Jet felt a strange sense of catharsis. Though his heart still ached, there was a newfound clarity in the aftermath of his breakdown—a fragile understanding that he could not carry the weight of his past alone.

Rising to his feet, his legs trembling, Jet took one last look at Rexa's picture, the familiar features now blurred by his tears. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "For everything." With a renewed sense of resolve, he turned and made his way to the cockpit, each step a testament to his resilience and his determination to keep moving forward, even when the past threatened to pull him under.

Stepping into the cockpit where his comrades were waiting, Jet enforced a broad smile, his usual exuberant demeanor quickly taking over. With a light-hearted tone, he said, [colour=ff0000][b]"So that was fun, huh?"[/b][/colour]