He also resumed counseling he'd begun years earlier after Benjamin's death.
Talking about grief had never come naturally.
He found it easier to repair a broken engine than explain why he'd trusted Rook despite repeated warnings.
But over time, he began recognizing how deeply his fear of losing another member of his chosen family shaped his decisions.
He'd been so afraid of another loss that he refused to face what was happening.
And that refusal caused harm.
The realization was painful.
But it was necessary.
One afternoon, his former wife Rachel visited the workshop.
She brought an old box of Benjamin's belongings that Hammer had left in storage years earlier.
Inside were photographs, drawings, school papers, and a handful of faded paper cranes.
Hammer opened the box slowly.
For several seconds, he couldn't speak.
Then he found a drawing.
A raven.
Its wings were uneven.
One stretched farther than the other, and a small gap interrupted the black line near its right side.
Hammer stared.
He remembered the day Benjamin drew it.
The boy had been tired after treatment and frustrated because his fingers wouldn't cooperate the way he wanted.
He attempted to draw a bird in flight.
The result was crooked.
Hammer told him they could try again.
Benjamin shook his head.
“No, Dad.”
Hammer smiled in the memory.
“Why not?”
His son lifted the drawing.
“Because it can still fly.”
Now, years later, Hammer looked toward the small raven tattoo beneath his watch.
The same shape.
The same uneven wing.
The founding members had copied Benjamin's drawing after his death.
They wanted the bird to represent courage.
Brotherhood.
And the promise that no one needed perfect wings to keep moving.
Hammer had loved the symbol.
Then Rook used the trust associated with it to hide what he was doing.
And Lucy had come to fear the image more than anything.
Hammer sat beside the workbench, holding the old drawing.
Rachel watched him quietly.
For several minutes, he couldn't speak.
Then he whispered.
“I failed him.”
Rachel's expression softened.
“Who?”
Hammer looked toward the raven.
“Ben.”
She took a breath.
For a moment, she seemed uncertain.
Then she sat beside him.
“You failed to act when you should have. You've admitted that.”
Hammer nodded.
Rachel continued.
“But Benjamin's life wasn't a test you passed or failed.”
His eyes filled.
She looked toward the drawing.