Her expression had gone flat again, but as he speaks the edges begin to soften; she can't help but think of other memories that weren't quite hers, that she was so desperate to reclaim, that she was given instead.

But there is a difference, and her gaze drops as she pulls her hands back and crosses her arms, trying to articulate it.

"He still designed them. He still chose them to make me the - the perfect bait. He chose what and who I would love." Her nails dig into her arms, hard enough to draw blood if not for the mystically resilient fabric of her sleeves.