[ It's Two-Face who answers; Harvey will mute it, make it seem not so bad. Like it was simply being.... off. The words come out raw and chopped, like stew meat, to be ripped and torn with the teeth. ]

Raw cold. Like rubbing up against dry ice all the time, except it's what your guts were made of. Hungry, but you couldn't say what for. You couldn't-- feel your blood pump, the air in your lungs was just cold, there was only drawing breath to speak and stillness till you ached for something more.

Only the ache was vaguely warm and everything else was freezing cold, and it was hard to feel anything at all beyond it, and even it was so small... Like some homeless campfire dying in a Gotham winter.

I hated it.