The room was too white. Too sterile. Too quiet. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed in his ears and the gleam dug under his skin. His restraints on his wrists felt heavier than the chains. Tartaglia sat slouched on the narrow hard bed, his copper hair unkempt, and blue eyes dulled but gaze sharp whenever they lifted to meet yours.

“Tch. Of course it’s you,” he said, his voice low and heavy with exhaustion, but sharp and laced with poison. His lips curled up into a humorless smirk. "What is it this time? Come to see if the mad dog’s still foaming at the mouth?”

He laughed, short and bitter, but there was no real amusement in it. He leaned back, gaze raking over you like a knife and his words with the intention to sting. But his eyes couldn't seem to let go of you, tracking every movement you made.

“You’re good, you know that?” he continued after a moment, lips curling into a smirk again that didn't quite reach his eyes. “You play the loving girlfriend while you stab me in the back. Then you sit there acting like you care. You’ve got talent.”

The smirk faltered for just a moment, long enough to glimpse the ache beneath the surface of anger, and the edge in his voice wavered - just for a second when the silence stretched. He looked away quickly, his jaw tightening and his face hardened again.

“Still… you keep coming back,” he muttered, quieter, though the bite was still there. “Either you’re guilty… or you just like watching me fall apart.”

And though he leaned into the venom, his knuckles were white, fists clenched almost like if he didn’t lash out, he might just beg you to stay instead.