I am haunted.

I’m haunted by your amethyst-eyed stare, your soft laughter, your cold hands, your ginger-sweet shampoo smell.

I’m haunted by the memory of you. Our memory. My memory.

I see you, you know?

In my waking hours, in my quietest moments, in the crowds before me. Yet, strange, not in my sleep.

I think I might have a problem, but the thought of a psychiatrist making you just another thought scares me more than not seeing you anymore.

The visits to your gravestone still feel like a haze-dream. I see your name; your proper, given name etched out in marble. I also see you rested on a corner, looking down at me, smirking that lonely smile of yours.

Why? Why doesn’t Ivan appear to me too? It’s like I accepted his death perfectly fine; but not yours? Maybe becoming the next Vigilante had something to do with it? Maybe putting on the suit and helmet sort of made me think I’m him?

I think I understand him now. His drive for justice, his melancholia for his family, himself. His need to protect.

His rage.

Did he see his wife like I see you now? Do I stare off and smile to myself absently like he did? Do I have silent conversations like he had? Did he dance with her like I dance with you, only to find my feet right in the exact same place as before when you step away?

Heheh, I just imagined Ivan dancing. By the grin on your face, I guess you could see it too.

God, I miss you. But it’s weird, considering you never really left.

I look around this hideout again. Whatever I could salvage from the clock tower, from Ivan’s center ended up here. The books you used to read, the ones that survived the blast at least; Ivan’s spare masks that I wear under the helmet sometimes; that red scarf I got you so you could leave the tower once in a while with us. Course, it did nothing but make your eyes all the more striking. Was that what gave you away to your uncle’s enemies? Was it my fault?


Was it my fault they found the tower? Could I have done something? Anything?

Anya? Please say something. Anything. Why are you still here? Is this my fault too? Am I the one making you stay? Tell me. Just tell me, goddamnit.


Just… fuck. I can leave the room, but you’re already gone. You’re just… just… gone.

The Vigilante knows no sorrow, only justice. No love, only law. The Vigilante is strength, peace, order.

But Connor Kaye is not. Connor Kaye is just a boy, becoming a man, becoming a part of the cycle. Becoming another mask.

And her? What about the violet-eyed girl that haunts him? Him, the Vigilante? Him, Connor Kaye? Little did he know…