Five minutes. Five goddamn minutes.
He arrives just in time to see the outbuilding go up in flames and a lackey drag Madeline out of a car, gun in hand. He doesn't even find Jesse until later, but Sam knows in that first second that he's lost everyone now. The need for revenge crawls up his spine and he clenches his fist around it fast. Even now, he's not that man. Fi wouldn't leave any of them standing, but Fi's gone now.
For an entire week, he barely sleeps. When he does, he wakes up two hours later, sweating bullets, gun in hand, going over all the seconds he could've saved, all the ways he could've made it in time, seriously thinking of making it a matching set and just finishing it. Venezuela doesn't even hold a candle to this.
The eighth morning, an old buddy calls. Sam paces until the sun's well up before he finally puts the gun down. He whiles away time tacking up photos, clearing up the debris of his grief and shoring himself back up before going out to help a little girl looking for justice.
It feels like the right thing to do.