She wants to respond with something witty, something sharp, something that makes her seem like she doesn't care. Something that dismisses what he's saying, because it isn't enough. If she's not bleeding for it, if it doesn't hurt, if it isn't some kind of sacrifice, how can it be sufficient?

But this damnable feeling rises back up in her, chokes up her throat - and she wishes, fervently, that it never got removed from where it was hiding, that she could just keep it all in her chest again. Oh, it's stressful when she does. But it's better than feeling like she's on the verge of falling to pieces. Tears are more trouble than they're worth, Fever's finding.

Subtly, one of her hands on her lap tightens, so that she might dig her nails into her palm and focus on the pain of that rather than anything else. Glance away, so there's no obvious tells in her eyes.

"Who defines that virtue, then? What counts as living your life well?"

Good. Her voice is still steady. That annoying urge is being forced back down. She can make it out of this.