The lift doors slid shut, sealing you off from the dark city. The hum of the gears filled the silence as the floor numbers ticked slowly upward, each one pounding in time with your heartbeat. You kept your cowl on, couldn’t bring yourself to remove it yet. This time it felt like a mask over more than just your face.

By the time the doors opened into the expanse of Wayne Tower, your body was trembling. Not from exhaustion, you’d surely endured worse, but from the raw, realization of what you had done out there.

You stripped the gloves, marked with someone else’s blood, off first. They landed on the marble floor with a dull slap. You couldn’t look at them. Your chest tightened. The armor felt like a prison, so you peeled it off piece by piece as you headed into the living room, leaving a trail behind like shed skin.

Alfred’s voice, a conversation with himself, faintly from the kitchen, muffled by the distance. You didn’t answer. You didn’t want him to see you like this, at least not yet. Not with the phantom weight of a lifeless body still in your hands.

You collapsed onto the edge of the sofa, elbows on your knees, head low. For the first time in years, your breath came ragged, uneven. Your eyes burned as if the rain had followed you inside.

The memory looped again, sharper now in the quiet: The crack of impact. The gasp that never turned into words. The stillness that followed.

You pressed your palms hard against your face, nails biting into your skin through the black paint smeared across it.