Like this. She doesn't need to run the list for him to grasp what she means. The noise he makes is wry, exasperated, because of course that's what it comes down to. He looks up at her, steady and unwavering once more.

"I don't recall the colour of my eyes before they improved them," he says. "If that's what you mean. Though at least I kept both of mine."

Lucky him. How much. All of it, is the answer, and maybe she can surmise that from his reply. He sighs, unfolding himself from the ground. His arms cross over his chest. Why is he still entertaining this conversation? And it isn't a secret, no. He's told plenty before that he was made. Created. That is a simple fact. But it's different with her, when she's seen him—

In there. (Afraid.) It is more intimate, even, than exposing a memory. That was not a memory. Something he could dismiss as long ago, the terror and agony of a child. That was here, now, his breath seizing and his stomach turning inside out. All from of a dark room and a too-powerful stench.

His weight shifts. "We should go."