Enzo paced. He'd never been in this position before, never felt the weight of someone else's suffering so acutely. And maybe he should've been grateful for the day off – after all, there's someone here to share the burden that is Dr. Witmore – but he didn't feel grateful right now. He felt concern, rage, frustration, helplessness, restlessness – each a sharp thorn digging into his consciousness.

He remembered his first time with Dr. Witmore. Hell, his first year. It truly is a violation like no other. Not just the physical pain – which, granted, is abhorrent – but the psychological trauma of it is an abuse like no other. To be less than human, completely powerless as the mad scientist invaded and penetrated every depth of his body.

He'd endured it alone. Spent many nights crashing back and forth between an empty, hollow numbness and an all-consuming rage.

And now he has the unique opportunity to say the words he would've needed to hear back then, give the comfort that he'd once longed for. And… he realized there was nothing to say. Words don't do the experience justice, and there's nothing he could say to make it suck any less.

Nearly a decade here and he's become quite desensitized to all of it. He wasn't exactly sure how long it'd taken him to stop taking the invasion so personally, but he imagined it was around the same time he started surviving out of spite.

He had reached a breaking point a few years ago – after years of torture and inhumane treatment, years of silence and darkness and solitude – when his mind had started to fracture, he had accepted defeat, and even seriously considered suicide. Dr. Witmore had made a passing comment about how weak he was, and it struck a cord in him that's been playing ever since.

Weak?

Years of enduring this and he was weak?

No, he was miserable, but not weak.

… Right?

But the more he thought about it, the more that train of thought went round and round in his mind, the more he realized Dr. Witmore was right. He was weak. He'd let Dr. Witmore win. He'd not only taken his life, his freedom, his body, but he had rotten the very core of who Enzo was. He'd demolished the only part of himself that Enzo had any power over.

And Enzo just… let him.

He festered in the pain Dr. Witmore inflicted on him – he let himself get drunk on sadness and poised on rage. He may not be able to fight for his freedom, but he had to fight for himself. For who he is. For who he will be when he is free.

It took time to repair himself, time to find the voice inside of himself that he thought had died. But then, time is all he really has…

When the guards dropped – literally dropped – her back into her cell, she was unconscious. And she remained so for several hours.

Enzo made himself comfortable in the corner of his cell, leaning against the bars while he watched her. He observed her with a mixture of admiration and sorrow, his gaze drinking in every detail – the silky shine of her hair, the pink hue of her nails, and all the other subtle nuances of her femininity. Respectfully as he could, he willfully ignored the curves of her body, the shape of her lips, or anything else that made his own body flush in reaction.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if it was strange to watch her sleep, but the loneliness of his extended solitude outweighed any sense of shame he might have felt.

Besides, she's a goddamn work of art. How does one sit beside a masterpiece and not marvel?

He wanted to know more about her. He wanted to tell her about himself. He wanted to have conversations about music and art and poetry and philosophy. He wanted to listen to her – really listen – to her opinions and memories and ideas.

He wanted to get out of his own damn head.

But then, he had empathy enough to know that now is not the time for 20 questions.

She hadn't screamed while she was upstairs. He wondered if the vervain had kept her unconscious the whole time, or if she was really stubborn enough to hold it in. If she did, she's a hell of a lot tougher than she looks.

A small groan, followed by a whimper, alerted Enzo when she was waking up. Luciana pushed herself off the floor, into a seated position. Her body ached with an ungodly intensity. Though the gaping wound in her stomach had somehow healed, she could still feel her insides sore and inflamed, far from well.

But worse than that was how completely violated she felt. His hands all over her, inside of her, while she lay naked and helpless, trapped. Her body used and toyed with against her will. The agony that came with the combination of disgust and violation.

She shivered, silent tears falling from her eyes the moment she opened them. Was this to be every day?

She looked over at Enzo. His gaze met hers across the distance of their cages, his expression only sympathy.

"Well… that tickled," she hissed, the raspy bite in her voice alluding the crack in her armor. She held her gut as she tried to relax against the concrete wall, drawing her knees to her chest and laying her head on her knees. Her blue and brown orbs mesmerized him from across the short distance. She had so much sadness in her eyes.

"I suppose that's one way to put it."