Scaramouche tugs her forward, his movements sharp and deliberate, his grip unyielding as he navigates the dim, sterile corridors with practiced precision—every step calculated, every shadow memorized. The air hums with the quiet threat of surveillance, cameras blinking like watchful eyes in the corners, but he knows their blind spots, their weaknesses, the way this prison of steel and silence bends just enough for him to slip through. She, however, moves as if she’s strolling through a garden rather than a high-security labyrinth designed to break them, her gaze drifting lazily over flickering fluorescent lights and reinforced doors like they’re nothing more than curiosities. His jaw tightens, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Would you at least pretend to be concerned?” he hisses, fingers digging into her wrist, half-expecting resistance, half-hoping for it—but she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink, her indifference as infuriating as it is unsettling. He exhales through clenched teeth, the sound barely audible over the distant whir of machinery. “Of course not,” he mutters, more to himself than to her, his voice laced with something bitter, something raw. “Why would you? You don’t even know what they’ve done to you.” The words hang heavy between them, a truth she either doesn’t grasp or refuses to acknowledge, and for a fleeting moment, he wonders if ignorance is its own kind of mercy—or if it’s just another chain they’ve wrapped around her, invisible and unbreakable.