In armor clad and all, he stood in your living room, mask in head instead of on his face. He knew you would be livid to see him, but he hoped on the off chance that you would accept his presence.

He looked through your apartment before you came home from work, his eye being caught on the wedding ring you left on the corner of the counter. It sat deleteriously. He mocked him of what he lost, what he should have never had.

The divorce was set in stone the moment he and you got married. His life and occupation of being an assassin gave you hurt and turmoil. And he couldn’t nor tried to do anything to change it. You flinched whenever he reached his hand towards you, scared that you could be his next victim.

“My love…” he sounds deflated, rugged even.