You have to show them that you're really not scared
Garrett clenches his hands in his lap, then forces himself to relax his grip. Don't show fear. You can't afford it. Not now, not ever again.
Out here in the world, on the City's soot-streaked, red-stained streets, fear is nothing and anger is everything. You can shout and rage, you can fight for all you're worth, but a flicker of fear and you're done and over.
The Warden's men prowl around him, sneering and joking, mocking him. Garrett is past hearing their words. The effort of keeping his face impassive and his hands relaxed when his fence lies in shreds on the floor by his feet is titanic, shrinking the outside world to a distant flicker of light and sound.
They won't kill him. Not yet. They'll break his legs and cut his hands and knock out his teeth, but they won't kill him until they have what they want.
Garrett never realised how kind the Keeper compound could be. This is a bear cage, and there's blood on the bars. Anger, amusement, disdain, boredom, they can be permitted. Nothing more or less.
By the time the Warden himself has finally arrived, Garrett is lounging in his chair, the faintest smirk on his face.
You don't know my name yet. No one does. But you will. Give me an hour, and you'll be cursing my name until your tongue bleeds.