By the time he hears a knock on his door that sounds different from the normal orderly, he's barely sure of his name, much less the rest of who he is and why he's here. He's reduced to the number they've given him, the routine of the tests and needles and lights on and lights out, and when she gives the instructions he follows without thought of protest. There's no fight left in him. He stands and slips his hands behind his head, closing his eyes and listening for the sound of the latch. There's something about the voice that tugs at him though, the part of him under the cocktail of drugs, and when he hears the door open he's blinking open his eyes to see who's replaced his normal torturer.

A shock of red hair--it's something familiar, from a long time ago, and he is struck with the image of her in a burning building, smiling at him over the thrashing body of an important man--but as soon as it's there, it's gone and he's almost glad of it, because it doesn't make any sense. He's seen none of these people before in his life. He doesn't have a life outside of this, outside of this building and who he's become being here.

"Morning or night?" He asks, voice slow and deep with the rounded edges of the medicine. He can't remember, if this is evening vitals or morning, and often they don't answer him, but every now and again, they do--