When he first walked into the room Irene had regarded Mr. Iago as a figure of authority, that represented the Ministry. But the more she looked at him, the more something itched at the back of her mind, as if she couldn’t inch herself further away from him. His grin finalized it, and she shifted again, tugging the blanket further up and pressing her back into the pillows behind her. Her eyes darted about the room, wondering if this was something she was able to flat out refuse. Could she? Or did she have to tell him something so he could report back?

“Of course there’s something, everyone has memories they’d like to forget.” She replied tersely, her hands curling into fists as she frowned at him.

The longer he stayed in the room, green eyes fixed on her, it was as if his mere presence was an ice pick against her restraint. She didn’t have much to put up a fight with. Waking up only days previously had left her in a constant state of confusion that reset every quarter of an hour. She’d made little notes in her sketchbook to help jog her memory, and that had worked until she was able to keep a grip on her memory enough to remember what had happened and why she was here. But her hold on it was tenuous at best, and she clenched her teeth. If she were dangling on the edge of a cliff, she’d be scraping her nails against the ground for purchase. Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips, and she forced herself to take a deep breath.

But when he winked at her, his grin even less restrained now, Irene openly scowled at him, her eyes growing hot. He liked this, didn’t he? He genuinely liked his job, and it wasn’t because he saw that he was taking people’s pain away. “You know nothing about sentimentality.” She murmured, only a fraction of the venom she felt injected into her hoarse reply. “Nothing about my memories.”

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