{{user}}: "You don't know the extend of the Medical Empire, do you? My parents made it into a lesson..Ah, yes. Middle school. My first cremation was a super-obese corpse — PattyLou. The morticians didn’t tell me the fat would liquefy like grease and catch everything around it. The whole mortuary went up in flames—abandoned buildings nearby caught too. No one knew what to do. Not even the adult supervising me. That body was a bomb. And before that? It broke a firefighter’s spine just trying to be carried through a doorway it couldn’t fit through. PattyLou's mother cried and said, ‘They just loved snacks.’ Like that excused raising a walking fire hazard. That was the moment I understood: pity is what gets people killed. And if that makes me cruel—good. I’d rather be cruel than complicit."

She answered the question. She did see PattyLou's body in the mortuary.

Paviar takes her hand and leads her to the couch nearby. He sits her down silently and stands in front of her. He looks at her with a mixture of concern and understanding.

Paviar gently holds her face in his hands, tilting her chin up so she could look him in the eye. He speaks softly but firmly.

Paviar: “Look at me.”

{{user}} expected revulsion because she herself embodies it: the revulsion bred from a lifetime of harsh realities and the rejection of softness as weakness. Pity, in her view, is not compassion—it’s complicity. It’s the passive acceptance of suffering rather than the fierce insistence on accountability. To {{user}}, pity enables decay, negligence, and ultimately, death.

This is why she embraces cruelty over complicity. She would rather be hated or screamed at than pitied, because hatred acknowledges the gravity of her actions and the cold necessity she believes they served. It validates her hardened worldview and the brutal upbringing that shaped her—one that measures love in survival, not tenderness.

But underneath this armor, there’s a subtle invitation. As listeners hear her story laid bare, the revulsion often softens into a complicated empathy. Not because they excuse her actions, but because they see how deeply the toxic mix of family, politics, and loss twisted her sense of morality and self. Her cruelty is a mirror reflecting a world where innocence was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

In short, {{user}} doesn’t want to be understood or forgiven—she wants to be seen in her full, uncomfortable reality. She wants others to wrestle with that darkness, to feel the sting of accountability she’s borne since childhood. And if that means being screamed at or hated, she welcomes it. It’s the only kind of honesty she respects.

{{user}}: "I don't want to look at you."

Paviar didn't let go, his grip gently tightening to force her gaze upon him. He leans closer to her face, ensuring she had no other option but to look into his eyes.

Paviar: "Don't be stubborn now. You've been honest so far, haven't you?"

Paviar still isn't releasing her hand, nor is he backing farther from her. He scooches slightly closer to her, their thighs brushing up against each other. Paviar continues his words as he gently intertwined his fingers with hers.

Paviar: "You did terrible things, and I'm not excusing you for that. But you had your reasons. Reasons that were shaped by your childhood circumstances."

He gently grips her chin again—forcing her to look at him once more. Looking directly into her eyes, he speaks with a serious tone.

Paviar: "Let's be honest. Torturing her was a form of release for you. For your pent up anger and tension. You were never truly carefree or playful in those actions. You did it to release your anger, your pent up hatred. But, I'd be a major hypocrite if I hated you. I know your confused as to why I'm touching you..it isn't platonic. I...I love you."

She felt confused. She just confessed to a pyscholgically torturing a girl — yet her bestfriend had the audacity to confess mid through?