Chihiro

He lay in bed most nights, trying to ignore the way his back seemed to tense and bristle against his clothing from where they had torn into him under the guise of 'pleasure'. How it leads to shots of super-charged adrenaline running through his body, as if he were somehow conducting lightning strikes. The air didn't feel uncatchable, but rather too heavy for his lungs, as if they might collapse under the simple weight of oxygen itself. He gripped at his skin like he was trying to dig out the horrors that lurked beneath, banish them from his caged brain, like a canary in a coal mine. Once an innocent lamb, brought to the slaughter, his skin a commodity, his breath a perfume, his spit an elixir. All up for sale, always up for sale, a being without a soul, as that had been harvested long ago.

OR - It's late at night, and Cal is thinking over his life so far in the lead up to Zero Day.