[His true feelings on the matter are ugly. His whole life felt like it was kept behind the bars of a prison, at least in some figurative way. It’s what makes him so angry; what keeps that anger still roiling in him even if it isn’t flaring. He doesn’t care what others think, he doesn’t care what their preferences are. If they’re foolish enough to find comfort after being stripped of the agency to choose to be here—and thus the ability to choose to leave—then what does it matter?

He doesn’t reply at first, stringing words together in his head to sound more pleasant. He rips out a weed with his hands again, dirt staining beneath his fingernails. Beside that, a few more pop out of the ground almost idly, using his abilities in a rather casual manner that only this place has ever allowed. But even Henry cannot give this world credit for that.]

I feel just as trapped as before. No, there aren’t any bars or locks, and we’re being taken care of. And this place is more than just white walls all day long.

[Like the lab.]

But there’s still expectation. The days start to bleed together. [A horrible feeling.] We’re still deprived of choice, in a way.