[ He's thought a little bit about what to say. Between her leaving him for dead and Steve Rogers turning around and doing the same thing to the whole fucking boat, the faith he'd had in inmates, in their willingness to look out for each other, has taken a hit.

So he launches into what happened, exactly what happened—both because she should know and because he wants her to feel like shit. ] I almost made it to Misty. [ He says, his voice measured, thoughtful. It's different from other memories—sharper in hindsight, but also remote. He remembers impulses that never went anywhere, terror and seething anger that couldn't so much as twitch a finger. Remembers at the same time his legs moving of their own accord. His face contorting, reshaping. ]

That knife you saw me with [ the blade long and clean, the sheath carefully stitched ] was from her, a gift.

I got to the elevator. I, uh, by then I had to slam my whole body into the button. I was scared—one of those things, you know, where you obsess over some minuscule detail—I was scared I wouldn't... [ He stops. Composes the thought. Speaks clearly. ] I wouldn't have the control to press the right button. I couldn't think of anything worse.

But I did it. Second floor.

When the doors opened, I couldn't move. And then they closed, and the lights went out. I— [ He can't, or doesn't want to, wrap his mind around that feeling—alone in the dark, hearing the far-off groans of the elevator without comprehending them. Body no longer his own, thoughts errant blips. ]

She found me. Somehow it was her. She killed me before I could get to anyone else. [ A sigh escapes him—maybe too soft for the communicator. He goes silent a long moment, and when he speaks again it's more direct, more certain. ]

We could've stopped her. Tess, I mean.