[Diavolo still kneels. His hair and wings are still damp with rainwater that drips to the floor beneath them both.

It's absurd to have this conversation here and now. But he can't keep his mouth shut.]

And what would you be so driven to remind me of, Doppio? What is so important that the memory of it must never be taken from me?

[The past is a blight. It wraps around him and chokes the life from him. Even the softer, kinder memories are a stain upon him, their existence a constant and painful reminder of everything he has lost.]

My failures, my regrets, my— my suffering? Would you chain me to those? Is that what you want?