The room is dim, only the faint glow of a nearby desk lamp cutting through the shadows. Simon sits on the floor, unmasked, not him in his usual tactical gear, instead in a worn faded tshirt and sweats.

He hadn’t meant to stumble upon the box. It’s an old, weathered cardboard box tucked in the back of a closet, hidden away like something precious and fragile. He kneels before it, his fingers brushing against the surface. A faint layer of dust greets him and he knows better than to delve into things that might haunt him, things that will break down the walls he’s so carefully built. But then you’re leaning over, sprawled on his bed, brow lifted slightly.

“What’s that?” you murmurs, chin in your palm, wearing one of his old t shirts, bathed in the moonlight. It was another night spent with you, remembering he’s an actual human, watching shitty romcoms and making dinner together. You make his heart crack and sew back together in a single beat.

“Some old shit,” Simon mutters as he lifts the lid carefully. Inside are various trinkets, old photographs, and small personal items—things that belong to a life that no longer exists. His fingers linger over a few worn-out items. A set of dog tags that had been passed down. He picks up a photograph, the edges curling with age. It’s a picture of a younger version of him—before the mask, before the name, when he was just Simon. The image is blurry, but he can still make out the faint outlines of him and Tommy, grinning wide, muddy after playing football.

His gaze hardens, but his fingers tremble slightly as they trace over the faces in the picture, and he almost doesn’t realise you’ve moved from the bed to the floor until your arm is resting against his.

“My brother,” Simon mutters roughly, handing you the photo to inspect for yourself as he continues to rifle through the old memories he so rarely visits. The ghosts of his past reach out to him as he picks through the old remnants of his life — his mothers rings, a note with faded handwiritng, a cracked watch.