He punches the wall and it doesn't fight back, rips the easel from its feet and throws it with a clatter to the floor, tears his posters down and only gets through two before he — comes to his senses and pauses, breathing hard, hands shaking as he sinks to his knees. He feels out of control, he is out of control, and it scares him with all the force of a memory:

—mind screaming at him to stop it, stop this, stop, arms moving of their own free will, smirk pulled across his features that he can feel tearing through his muscles, it isn't his, this rage and arrogance and power it can't be his why does it feel like—

and he slams a fist against the floor and flinches at the reverberation, only unclenches his fingers after he can feel them start to go numb. "I'm sorry," he says, and it's just a declaration to an empty room, it doesn't matter, but — it's not like they'd listen to him anyway. It's not like anyone would listen to him, if he walked up to them and told them, "I was trapped in a virtual world under the control of a psychopath computer virus that wanted to kill everyone who might have mattered to me."

He's completely alone.

In the wreckage of the room, a room that doesn't even feel like his anymore, full of relics from a past life he returned to unprepared and unaided, he cries of his own free will, a litany of apologies falling from his tongue.