Some of those words strike harder than others. Jo'd have to be that level of heartless she was errantly thinking about for them not to matter. Forced. Survive. Most don't. Broken children's bed where once there were children (who broke their own beds? Who broke each other's bed and possibly worse?) and the child-sized cuffs on the wall, that doesn't need clarification against that cold light.

"You weren't born like this." It's a statement, but it reads like a question (even as her mind is reciting those first words from earlier), and there's a tip and nod of her head toward him, and the obvious question slides out right against its back. "How much of all of this is it?"

She almost immediately tacks on a shopping list of options at the end of her guesses—the yellow eyes? the black ones and the veins? the hyper-reflexes?—but she manages to stop herself time. To let the question be left up to him what it touches, without the demand of specific dots and lines connecting immediately for her.