Ginko starts to protest again, but Foster’s hand presses down over his mouth. He still tries, still makes an effort to argue and plead and reason against whatever it is that Foster is doing here, but it’s pretty effectively muffled, and Foster… he’s not faltering, he’s not listening. He might be able to feel the tempo of Ginko’s breath changing against his hand, his exhalations coming out shaky and uneven as he starts to panic.

The pressure of Foster’s fingers around the stem of the rose sends a bolt of pain through his skull. It’s not a simple pang of nerves; it’s not really something he’s ever felt before, a feeling of deep and inherent wrongness that makes him sick to his stomach and sends him struggling to escape all over again, trying to twist away, yanking at the cuffs until his wrists are sore and bruising.