He lies in bed at night, and he thinks of her.
It's not voluntary; he'll be on the very verge of slumber and she'll worm into his brain like she'd wormed into his life. Completely unexpected. The virus, she tells him he's got a creepy sleeping face and chuckles at her own joke, flitting off into his files again seconds after the remark.
She leaves a bittersweet taste in his mouth and an ache in his bones when she bids farewell again, falls away into the dark recesses of his mind. He sees her again hours later, because she's all he sees in his dreams. He sees the girl who saved him and he's reminded that he didn't return the favor. This is an old thought, a crash of deja vu against his already bleary mind - "Master, what are you heaving for?" - but every single time it slaps him. It slaps him like he deserves it. For all he knows, he does.
Next, he sees the blond and his hatred-hued eyes, staring him down until he's sure he'll crumple on himself. He's not telepathic, but he gets his message across entirely. 'You killed her.' It stings more than the blond knows. And this blond has more than enough right to think so, - "Master, quit crying! It's gross!" - to pin the blame on him, all he'd been was cruel to her.
And all she'd done was love him. He sees the red, the blinding, beautiful crimson, and he sees her save people. He sees her tears on the desk, and he can't keep his eyes shut any longer.
He sees her when he sleeps at night, and she's so bright and beautiful and so so tangible that he wants so so badly to join her. And when this man (a boy no longer) sees her again, nights later, he recalls his favorite gradeschool game and plays scissors.
Best two out of three, says his opponent, and he has to play again.