The Armor

The bathroom was small, tiled in white, and smelled faintly of lavender bleach. It was the most clinical room in Ezra’s cluttered apartment, and right now, it looked like a triage unit.

Julian sat on the edge of the bathtub. He had stripped off the ruined top of his stealth suit, leaving him shivering in the cold air. His torso was a map of scars—some old and faded, others fresh and angry. A long, jagged laceration ran across his ribs, oozing sluggishly.

Ezra knelt on the bathmat, a first-aid kit popped open beside him. He soaked a cotton pad in antiseptic.

"This is going to sting," Ezra said.

"I don't feel pain," Julian muttered, looking at the shower curtain to avoid eye contact. "I’m a Class-4 Villain. I have a pain threshold that would—"

Ezra pressed the pad to the wound.

Julian hissed, his whole body jerking. He grabbed the edge of the porcelain tub, his knuckles turning white.

"You were saying?" Ezra asked mildy.

"Shut up," Julian grit out. "You're enjoying this."

"Cleaning your wounds? Not really. I prefer reading." Ezra threw the bloody cotton into the trash and grabbed a roll of gauze. "Lift your arm."

Julian hesitated, then obeyed. As Ezra began to wrap the bandage around his ribs, the silence stretched between them. It wasn't the terrified silence of high school. It was heavy, confused.

"Why?" Julian asked suddenly. His voice was devoid of the "Viper" persona. It was just a tired man speaking.

Ezra paused, pinning the bandage in place. "Why what?"

"Why help me? I made your life hell," Julian said. He looked down at Ezra, his expression twisted in genuine confusion. "I shoved you in a locker senior year. I told everyone you were a waste of space. If I were you, I would have kicked me off the fire escape."

Ezra sat back on his heels. He looked at Julian—really looked at him.

In high school, Julian had seemed ten feet tall. He had glowed with potential and arrogance. Now, sitting half-naked in a cramped bathroom, he looked hollowed out. The shadows that usually danced at his command were dormant, exhausted.

"I thought about it," Ezra admitted. "But you looked like you had nowhere else to go."

Julian flinched. "I have safe houses. I have minions."

"You have a concussion and three broken ribs, and you came to the window of the only person in the city who you knew wouldn't try to arrest you or kill you for clout," Ezra corrected.

He stood up and began packing the kit away. "And to answer your question: I'm helping you because I'm not you. That's the difference."

Julian went still. The insult—if it was an insult—landed softly.

"I hated you," Julian whispered.

Ezra froze at the door. "I know."

"No," Julian shook his head, looking at his hands. "I hated you because you were... okay. You had no powers. You were a 'zero.' And you just... went home and read books. You didn't have the pressure. You didn't have the expectations."

Julian looked up, his eyes wet. "I wanted to be normal, Ezra. I broke you because I wanted to see if you would crack like I was cracking."

Ezra stared at him. The revelation reshaped the past ten years. It didn't excuse the cruelty, but it explained the desperation. The Golden Boy wasn't golden; he was just gilded.

"Well," Ezra said softly. "You cracked. And here you are."

He tossed a towel at Julian. "Clean up. You can sleep on the couch. Try to kill me, and my cat will scratch your eyes out. She has zero moral code."