The illusionist's lip curled in disgust, sneering at the affection bestowed upon him through that moment of intimate contact. There was no question that Mukuro was going to make some sort of attempt to escape from the apartment when his strength returned - the better question to ask was: when? It might take weeks, or several months, but Mukuro had already started to absorb the details of the room and catalogue them precisely. Control the space, control the senses of your opponent, and the battle would already be half-won.

Mukuro rolled over on to his side and winced as the burn scars stretched with the movement. The liquid he'd consumed earlier stayed his hunger slightly, but his stomach still ached for something filling. It galled him to think he'd be dependent on the Storm for his meals.

He closed his eyes. Chrome... Chrome, can you hear me?