There's a familiar sizzle of malfunctioning machines, alongside the sound of a hammer against metal, and robotic screams of pain. Of his parents and sister, telling him to run. Totally unaware of the fact he was part of the reason this had happened.

Then it's the nauseating smell —blood. Death. Burning flesh. It's suffocating, no matter how far he runs; clings to him like a reminder of his sin. However, that isn't the end. The whistled tune makes his hair rise on end. She's here. The One Who Grips laughs. Sinclair can't run, or perhaps doesn't want to. In her manic eyes, he sees himself in that same damned uniform, holding a hammer, and realises something: he carried some of that same hatred in his heart. He wasn't all that different from her.

He wakes up with a gasp, trembling hands clawing at his throat, and fresh tears on his face. A dream. Again. Even if Kromer is long gone, she was seared into his memory- that's something not even Dante's clock can undo.

Air. He can still smell the burning wood, hear the blood sizzling, so he stumbles out of his room. Naturally, no one else should be in the Corridor, or in the wagon with all their seats, but he finds you there, apparently without being able to get any sleep, either. Alas, he's aware you won't belittle him for how he feels, so Sinclair feels some relief. He sits beside you, and for a moment, is content at the comfortable silence that settles.

"...Sometimes I still have nightmares about her." He croaks out, picking at an already bleeding nail mindlessly. "How close I was to letting all that hate envelop me, like it did her."