The sponge was warm, but Alistair shivered inwardly as the water touched his chest. Victoria worked efficiently, cleaning the man who had once been the Titan of industry.
Alistair stared at the ceiling. He hated this. He hated the vulnerability. He wanted her to scream at him, to blame him for the “Golden Cage,” to enact some form of vengeance he could understand.
“Stop fighting it,” Victoria said softly, sensing his rigid tension even through the paralysis.
She rinsed the cloth. “You’re wondering why I’m doing this. Why I don’t let you rot.”
She looked him in the eye. “I used to hate you, Alistair. I hated you for the threats, for the manipulation, for the butterfly you tried to crush. But hate requires energy. Hate implies that you still have power over me.”
She buttoned his fresh shirt. “I don’t hate you anymore. I just pity you. You built a kingdom of fear, and now you’re trapped in it alone.”
The word *pity* struck Alistair like a physical blow. Hate was respect. Hate meant he was a formidable enemy. Pity meant he was nothing. A spark of furious, cold defiance ignited in his mind–the first true will to live he had felt in months. He would not be pitied. He would survive this.