Strange how anger could be so hot that he felt it cold sometimes, burning away at him, hurting him in its own way because anger was supposed to have been bled out of him like a dirty wound was bled of rot and pus. He shouldn't be feeling this way, shouldn't be showing so much because there was a risk. Ironically, brazenly, he didn't care about the risk at all because no matter what, he would suffer pain for what he was doing, what he was saying.

He watched her, not about to make her accept the burden of his words unless she really wanted to know. He shifted from his seat when she did, his hands open and palms facing her as a sign of peace as he closed the distance between them. He leaned in, placing mouth next to her ear as he whispered for her ears alone, "Deep, deep down inside, I'm still there, drowning in the wash of conditioning, trying to drag myself out. I'm a passenger for the things I've done, watching someone else's life and I fight, claw and scream to rise... but I lose over and over again. Always losing and that makes what I do all the worse." He turned his face to glance at the observation window before kissing the lobe of her ear.

Slowly, he withdrew, bumping his nose against her temple in an odd affection. He began his slow deadly retreat back to his chair. "I wasn't awake long enough to need more."