He was a professional. He did his job swiftly and efficiently - failure was not an option. He had spent years undercover, put on countless masks, forged new identities over and when he was done, folded them over and tucked them away in some deep hole in his soul.

It was not easy but he never expected it to be. He took joy in the challenge and the adrenaline that was kept him going long after anyone else would have collapsed. He had absolute faith in his role and his purpose. He was a tool serving Justice and he could have never been anything other than that.

Justice.

The word tasted odd on his tongue when spoken out loud; he preferred to carve it into the bodies of his targets, implement it in wood by setting it aflame, tracing old scars on a lean back that curved under his finger tips.

Justice.

It had fallen on that day on a blazing bridge, under a sky glazed over with clouds. Fallen when a giant fist crushed the only one he ever believed would remain standing as the rest of the world crumbled and turned to ash.

Then they had been hunted and chased. They fought back tooth and nail but even the best can last so long. They dealt out Justice where they could, wherever they went, however they could. They needed to survive and even though the order they served believed they should be dead, they lived – even though they didn't disobey orders. They believed in Justice overall; they would return to their rightful place when those blinded fools come to realize how vital they were.

Justice.

Over the years it changed size and form. Some left to live in hiding – one returned to being a bartender and another had entered the theatre. The others became a village gossip and news-bearer, and the last the head of a city; a certain wolf-headed idiot plunged to death in a reckless frenzy against two warships.

Then it was just him following the back he chose to – imprinted with the symbol of Justice, pure and untainted by the corruption of men who believed they were superior. Justice was all that mattered.

Justice held firm in steady arms and cool eyes that glinted with a light that had more to do with the dark. Coiled limbs ready to pounce, breathless nights that stretched out over the years to what it meant to be alive and kicking. And then it was gone.

He thought it wasn't possible. But he was wrong. Justice faltered and dropped to his knees and bled through steel skin and gasped with golden eyes going dim in the gleam of the rising sun.

He kept moving forward because it was the only thing he could do. He saw him everywhere – in the way the light glinted off the wet patches on the ground, in the haughty glare a hungry cat tosses over, in the swirl of thoughts that try to shove exhaustion aside to shriek in his ear.

The weight of Justice was heavy in his hands, flimsy and strange but he kept at it because he was good at it. It kept him breathing, kept him dodging, kept him going and moving forward through towns and islands.

Years of running kept him alert and eager; things like justice and humanity and the easy smile that frequently shaped his lips were shrugged off so that their weight would not slow him down.

He held onto the image of a pair of golden eyes under a long dark mane of hair – Justice, Justice. He wondered if it would be the last thing he saw.