Her words hit him. They do more than hit, they strip him of the armor he has worn so often it has become a part of his skin; his mask, his face. She strips him of his righteousness and bares him; his shoulders shake under the force of what is true: she doesn't need to know him to see who he is.

He is the monster in her story, and his victory was her tragedy. (It is his too, in this moment, knowing how easily he could have and would have snuffed her out. He held her life in his hands. More than once, he did, but only once he didn't choose to save her.)

He wouldn't do it differently; if anything, he would willingly do it all again to rid the world of his father. For his daughter, for himself, for his family. But that does not mean her suffering was worth it, not for a moment. He is silent, his expression fallen and anguished. Only after a moment does he shift, lean back, and finds the words to say. "You were."