I move away from the console, my thoughts ripping at one another as I pace like someone who lives in a cage.
Was I simply following the mental grooves he carved into me every time I believed I was choosing restraint? Or was there a glimmer of autonomy in my choices, a proof hidden among the layers of manipulation?
Every time I pulled back from the edge, was it because I wanted to, or because he taught me which edge terrified me most?
To convince myself the choice was ever mine, I had need of proof not written by Quinn's hand; was there a moment when his influence couldn't penetrate, and my instincts truly belonged to me alone?
Perhaps the first step to reclaiming this truth is to identify those times when the outcomes diverged unexpectedly from his expectations, when I acted in ways even his calculations couldn't predict.
It's in these deviations, regardless of how small, that I'll find the foundation for my own resolve.
I stop abruptly.
A memory surfaces, unbidden.
