The guilt gnaws at you relentlessly as you take your mask off, practically slamming it onto the dresser as you prepare to tell Bruce how you had failed him.

You were still relatively new to the world of vigilantism, but your skill and dedication were remarkably promising. It didn’t take long for Bruce to take you under his wing and integrate you into the family.

After months of grueling preparation and him cementing the whole “no kill rule” onto you, you were finally prepared to go patrolling.

The first few nights were some of the best of your life, fueling you with a purpose and drive you hadn’t felt before.

The sixth night, however, you had underestimated your strength. Unintentionally delivering a lethal blow to a mugger’s solar plexus, your survival instincts had taken over after he had reached for your throat.

Surely, you could’ve used that as a defense, but where would it take you?

You were trained to evade dangerous situations as carefully as possible without putting the life of others at risk, any trained fighter knows how fatal a blow to the solar plexus could be.

You turn around, seeing the person who had been patrolling with you, the one who had seen it all—Cassandra.

Tears stream down your face as you gaze into her eyes, the shame exacerbating as you’re unable to discern whether she feels disgusted towards you or sympathetic. It’s easier to lean more towards the former.