It wasn't a comparison, her lack of control against his own. Just a separate type of pain. One, like fire, at the hands of a group wholly unfeeling, absolutely all-consuming. One, like drowning, at the hands of those who should have loved and been loved best. Both taking, reassigning, reshaping fate, sending fissures, then cracks, decaying and snapping and twisting, recreating into something completely unpredicted.

Better for them both that it was a road left untaken. There was no fair comparison to make.

Her eyes flicked away at his question. Rested somewhere beyond his sight line. Saw nothing at all.

"And your commentary about how I could still have been shot in the chest when I pulled my knife? That expression in your face? Your comparison that I might need to be helped like a person who might get run over by a car in the street? The question about if I should just let you sit by idly when you're such a good weapon? Your fervent reminders about how dangerous you are?" The line of her brow puckered. The words had started sharp, but ended thin, hollowing until they were almost empty. "How small we must all be to you. Little ants, so fragile."