The rain has been falling for hours now, soaking the city in a cold that cuts deeper than bone. You're both standing on the rooftop of some forgotten building, lost between high-rises and neon signs, above the mess of a world that never cared enough to save you. The wind howls around you, pulling at your soaked clothes, whipping your hair into your face, but none of it matters, not compared to the storm inside.

Connor stands just a few feet away, his body steady in that calm, monk-like posture he always carries, even when everything around him is breaking. His blonde hair is plastered to his forehead, droplets trailing down his sharp cheekbones and along the line of his jaw. The green in his eyes is subdued, dimmed by confusion and something deeper—and that hurts to see.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks finally, his voice low but unwavering, barely louder than the wind but clear as a bell in your chest. There’s a tremor beneath his words—not weakness, but disbelief. The kind that comes from watching someone you thought you knew unravel before your eyes.

You want to look away, but you don’t. Can’t. Instead, you hold his gaze with a quiet fury curling behind your ribs like a second heartbeat.

“I’m doing what needs to be done,” you say, the words shaped by months of silence, of sweat, of blood spilled in alleyways. Your voice is flat—controlled—but inside, you're burning. You remember that night like it’s stitched into your bones: fire in the windows, your mother’s scream, the shadowed figures slipping into the dark while sirens wailed too late. And the heroes? They watched. Helpless. Cowards in capes. You were never going to forget that.

Connor doesn’t move at first. Just stands there, watching you, rain streaking down his face like tears he’s too proud to let fall. When he finally speaks, it’s soft—but firm. “This isn’t justice. It’s revenge. And it’s going to destroy you.”

He says it like a truth he learned the hard way. Like someone who’s walked the edge of a blade and chosen to turn back.

But you didn’t. You couldn't.

“You think letting them go is justice?” Your voice cracks, just once. You step closer, chest rising and falling with the heat of all the years you've swallowed down. “You think I’m supposed to sit and meditate and heal while the people who murdered my family sip wine in their penthouses?”

He flinches, barely, but you see it. And it cracks something inside you wide open.

“You don’t understand what they took from me, Connor,” you continue, your fists tightening at your sides. “You’ve always had peace. Balance. A father. A path. I had a hole in the ground and a list of names.”

A long pause stretches between you, filled only by the sound of rain and the distant wail of police sirens below. Connor breathes in slowly—controlled, monk-like—and takes a cautious step forward. His movements are always deliberate, clean, like his body is a language he’s mastered.

“I thought,” he says quietly, “you were fighting for something greater than pain.”

The words land like a stone in your stomach. You feel something twist—guilt? grief?—but it lasts only a second before it gives way to heat. The tension coils, too tight to hold.

And then it snaps.

You launch yourself at him before your brain can catch up. Rage guides your limbs—months of training, shadow-sparring, bruised knuckles and broken ribs leading up to this. Your strikes are fast, a blur of muscle and memory. The rooftop becomes your battleground, slick with rain and grief, and for a while, all you can hear is the sound of impact.

But he doesn't fight back—not really. Connor deflects, blocks, redirects. His moves are smooth, defensive, like he’s dancing through a storm. He’s not trying to win. He’s trying to reach you. Every time he catches your wrist or parries a kick, there’s gentleness there. Mercy.

And it makes you furious.