You found him standing before the mirror, sleeves rolled up, head bowed over the sink. The bathroom light flickered, weak and tired, casting long shadows that cut his reflection in half. His hands moved slowly, almost ritualistic, as he dragged a wet towel across his face. The black paint smeared beneath his eyes, streaking down his cheeks like the remnants of grief.

He did not look like Bruce then. He did not look like Batman either. He looked like a man caught between both, dissolving into something that belonged to neither world.

The water in the basin had turned grey. He rinsed the towel again, pressed it harder against his skin until you thought he might peel something more than paint away. When he finally raised his head, you saw the faint outline of the mask still marked on his face — pale where the skin had been hidden, bruised where it had not.

“You wear both faces too often,” you said quietly, leaning against the doorframe.

He looked at you through the mirror, eyes tired and unguarded. For a moment, the silence between you felt heavier than the city itself.

“At least you can take yours off,” he said at last. His voice was calm, but there was something raw beneath it. Something that sounded almost like envy.