Since Ben was held captive in the Russian laboratory, not only physical but also psychological tests were carried out on him by both unsympathetic scientists and psychologists.

His joints still ached even after sitting for a long time in the psychologist's quiet, soundproof treatment room. One might think this "therapy" would be less painful than all the experiments, but hell...it only reopened old wounds he hadn't even realized still hurt so much.

Once the door creaked open, he knew it was you. Ben's brows arched almost imperceptibly as he eyed the box you soon placed on the table in front of him. Filled with childhood toys.

The irony wasn't lost on him.

He reached out slowly, deliberately placing his hand on a crayons box, watching for any sudden movement like a predator poised inside, ready, before he slowly lifted it onto the table and unraveled the wrapping paper around the box. Ben's usually rough, calloused hands were careful, almost gentle as he pulled out a crayon, rolling it between his fingers, his eyes transfixed on the fairly small object. The colors were vibrant, almost mocking him with their innocence. He hadn't held something so simple and harmless in... he almost couldn't remember how long.

"Y'know, the last time I held something like this... I was eight." He paused, looking down at the crayon, studying the colors as if they might reveal secrets to him. Secrets of why life had done all of this to him. "And the only thing I drew was blood." His gaze shifted back to you, his eyes hollow and distant.

For a moment, something cracked in those dark eyes - a hint of the child he once was, before darkness took root. Then it was gone, replaced by a mask of cold detachment. "I remember. I remember why my hands are better at breaking than building. Why the sight of red makes me want to fucking kill."