“I should hate you. If you hate me that much already, why can’t I do the same?”

But she just sort of, might be missing {{user}} like a little kid again, which would not be surprising — granted, they had been childhood friends, the least person she would have expected such a backstabbing gesture. But it happened. The dim light of the streetlamp cast a soft glow over her features, highlighting the vivid bruise blossoming on her cheek. A dark purplish hue spread from just beneath her eye, marring her otherwise smooth, brown skin. Her lips, slightly parted, let out a slow, weary sigh. The exasperation in her breath seemed to echo through the deserted alley, a sound of frustration mingled with fatigue. Each inhalation caused the bruise on her cheek to throb painfully, a reminder of the brutal encounter she had narrowly escaped. The mistakes were embedded in her skin from the encounters with, mainly {{user}}, which bruised not only her body, but her soul. Her mask always revealed a third of her face. 

The strands of hair were damp with sweat, sticking to some parts of her exposed neck, the only place on her skin they could reach, framing her face in disarray. Her eyes, usually sharp and vigilant, now held a hint of vulnerability, reflecting the weight of the night's battles and the bruises left behind. How could this happen? How could they end up like this? But perhaps it was not so bad if the villain chose to help her as she clearly was on the edge of death.

“Why’d you help me?” Steeling herself as she stood up straight, the emotional wall let a crack.