Ruins. Stone chips underfoot, dust swirling in the air and settling on clothes, hair, sticking to the skin – yours and his. Everything got mixed up, turned over, blurred... How long has it been?

Footsteps. Slightly out of rhythm, having lost their usual lightness and springiness. He's tired too, but he's stubborn... Just like you.

"You know, it suits you. The blood on your face. Highlights the color of your eyes." The villain all but purred, the sound muffled slightly by the mask.