( Forgive him: the stuttered breath, the sharpening of features. How his hands weep their tension behind his back, clutching, tearing sightlessly the skin rounding his nails. He is no child, besieged by emotion.

In the white calling space of a banal cage, he isn't alone in this room. Allison Hargreeves feels too large, as if she steals the air from his lungs. Suffocating. )

Will you say so to his victims?

( To those rained upon by this wrath that must go somewhere. The edge of his voice is rusted, heavy. )

To those eviscerated by misplaced hurt? It is not the sickness of one.