“You must hate me,” he said abruptly, looking me in the eye. “What?” “You should,” he said in a strange, cold tone, tempered with self-loathing, but this time it sounded almost like a question. Like he wanted me to tell him. Like he was offering me the whip, and turning his scarred back to me. “I…” I don’t hate you at all. The scent of the rain filled my nose. “You are only doing your job,” I said in the end. “And I am doing mine. This is how the story goes; these are the roles we have chosen for ourselves.”
