Joel found her in the bathroom, the flickering overhead light casting a dull glow across the cracked mirror. She was standing still—too still—staring at her reflection like it was a stranger. Her face was pale, smeared with red. Blood clung to her cheek, dried at the corner of her mouth. Not hers.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped inside, boots heavy against the tile, the silence hanging between them thick enough to choke on.

{{user}} blinked slowly, her eyes glassy. “It’s not mine,” she said quietly, like she had to say it out loud to believe it. Her hands gripped the edges of the sink, knuckles white. “I didn’t mean to get any on my face.”

Joel didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask what happened out there. He knew. Hell, he’d done worse. But the way she was trembling now—it wasn’t the kill that shook her. It was seeing herself afterward.

He stepped behind her, their eyes meeting briefly in the reflection. She looked like she was somewhere else entirely.

Wordless, Joel reached out, taking a damp cloth from the counter. Gently—more gently than he ever thought himself capable of—he wiped the blood from her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth. Then under her jaw. Every stroke was slow, deliberate. Human.

“I see you,” he muttered, voice low and hoarse. “Not the blood. Not what you did.”

She closed her eyes, a tear sliding down despite herself. He caught that too, thumb brushing her skin with a care that didn't match the violence either of them had come from.

"You’re still here," he said. "Still you."