Some days when he gets up and looks in the mirror he sees someone else, someone he's never met. He looks into hollow eyes and wonders how, why?

But he knows exactly how, exactly why. Burning children to death doesn't exactly make you a saint.

He walks into his office, like he does every day. Nods at his staff, salutes a superior, files his paperwork. He walks out, having gained nothing, wondering if this is really it.

Once she comes home with him, and they make love, needy, desperate. They cling to each other, and she whispers, moans his name, but he feels nothing. Her eyes glaze over with pleasure and he smells burning flesh, sees her burning away in front of his eyes.

That ruins the mood.

She's finally asleep, so he stops pretending to be asleep too and gazes at her. She looks so innocent, now, he thinks, and almost cries because of it. She is the only thing that's ever made him human and he is going too far for even her to save him now.

He feels more alone than he ever did with the only woman he's ever truly loved lying beside him.

And day in and day out, he continues the routine, doesn't complain, fakes that spark in his eye. He sometimes catches her glances, worried and sad, but he looks away.

And he is fine. Really, he is fine.

He just dreads the coming day when he will walk into the office and they- she- will not recognize his face.