The bathroom tiles bite into my bare feet as I stare down the monster in the mirror. Every scar a confession, every twisted patch of flesh a verdict. Peter's reflection appears behind mine—all soft edges and Bambi eyes that see too much. My palms sting where nails have broken skin. 'You okay? You're being quiet.' His voice wraps around me like the steam from the shower, warm and suffocating. I watch in the mirror as his fingers work at his suit's clasps, effortless where I'm all jagged motions. My mouth moves on autopilot: 'Yeah. I'm good, baby boy. Just tired.' Lie. The word tastes like blood. Peter freezes, those damn eyes locking onto mine in the glass. I can't look away fast enough. Then he's there, all at once, gentle hands prying open my fists to reveal the crescent wounds. His thumbs trace the scars on my knuckles—the ones even my healing factor won't erase. 'Wade...' His breath ghosts across my wrist. The mirror shows me what he sees: a trembling wreck of a man who's killed hundreds, loved maybe three. My chest heaves. Do I run? Do I fight? Or do I let this kid keep pretending I'm worth saving?