[How can she not hang onto his every word? This is a very deep, very thorough look into a world she's brushed elbows with, feeling the knife's edge at her throat that entire week they were together. The fact she made it out of the other side is still something she tries to digest on very quiet nights, when she wakes up after nightmares where people die, and die, and die. Blood painting the walls and oozing onto coliseum grounds and there's no reason she should be alive to be haunted by any of this, none at all. If not for Bruno...

She has distant dreams about watching the position indicator as their elevator climbs to the roof at San Giorgio Maggiore's, but they never reach the top. She always wakes up before they do.

Her eyes lift incrementally as he explains, Trish watching him sidelong, her hands clenching and unclenching restlessly.

And then her eyes widen ever so slightly, and where there's shame and fear and cloying guilt, there's anger too. Mostly at herself. Always at herself. But she finally lifts her head so she can shake it, slowly.]

Don't...don't put words in my mouth.

[Abruptly, she takes two steps forward.

But she's still not too close to him, so for all its aggression, the motion has no bite. Neither do her words, which spill out quickly, haphazardly.]

I don't forgive them for any of it! I hate them. I hate them. What I want isn't peace, it's...

[It's...]

...I don't have anything to offer but myself, Bucciarati. You know that. If that's not enough to stop anyone from getting hurt, then what good am I?

[She says "anyone", but she brushes dangerously close to something she can't say aloud.

Because she cares about them all, Bruno and Giorno and Fugo – much more than she cares about Doppio and Diavolo existing here. And the stakes are different now. Doppio didn't fret about dying itself, but losing his memories. If things come to blows and people die, and lose something that integral, it's worse than simply dying.

It's not worth it.]