[ The pressure feels both familiar and alien — it isn't the same pressure that would have choked the life out of him, either before in the hallway, or those times in the past, when large hands closed down on his throat, trying their damndest to wring the life out of him. This isn't quite as violent, pressing, but not closing. He should be wrenching him off, tugging his hand free, but he only lets it rest there. His fingers instead speak loud enough, thumb still running a circular pattern on the underside of his wrist.

He doesn't let him look too far away, if his eyes remain on his hand, he'll dig in with fingers, remind him that he is in front of him, that he should stay looking at him.

Maybe his hands were more honest than his mouth. ]

And mine will leave me at the bottom of the river one day, I am sure. We are all alone when it catches up to us. [ He says, and it's perhaps too flippant for the subject, but he knew where he would end up. They had nowhere else. It isn't a point of pride, nor is it shame. It is what it is. ]

Tell me... [ His fingers are back to stroking, coaxing. He catches on a scar, again trying to scrape along the surface. ] Do you hold this standard to everyone else?

[ Did this monster only seek his own punishment? ]

Do you only seek punishment for yourself?

[ Was that what this was for him? ]