The return knock shakes some of the tension out of Chirrut's frame, if only for a moment. The heady relief of finding Baze alive drowns his senses. Then, as if given permission, the doubts, fears, horrors pour in, tightening his shoulders and bowing his head. He rests it against the cool surface of the tank, his heads spread against it for balance.

There's blood on his hands. Literal blood, spread there during his desperate search for the wound that was taking Baze from him.

There's figurative blood as well. Forgotten in the moment it happened, he can now hear the sickening crack of wood against bone.

Worse, he's not sure he can feel entirely wrong about the act. He feels he should. He... should. But every second he spent trying to bring his opponent down was one less he had to find Baze.