[Fugo's composure cracks. His eyes widen, just barely, with shock.]

[It's been years since he's put this sort of wall up around Bucciarati. It's a hasty construction, built on top of an unsteady foundation. And once it cracks, it crumbles. As it always is with Fugo, no matter how hard he tries, what he feels is written plain on his face. His mouth works. His fingers tremble, then tighten. He bites the inside of his cheek, then ducks his head down and away.]

That's ... backwards. [Fugo numbly mumbles, his thick with emotion.] If anyone was the enemy, it was me.

[Bucciarati left without looking back. With no regrets. Of course he did. The choice he made was right. Doesn't he get it? Doesn't he see how Fugo betrayed his ideals? Isn't that how it works, in their world?]

I would have let her die. [That's the truth. The awful, horrible truth. He regrets it. He regretted it even before he came to know Trish, but especially now that he does. It's disgusting.] We were all free to choose, but I-- ... the choice I made was wrong. It went against everything you tried to teach me.

[When Fugo looks up, his expression is a tangled tapestry of hurt. He just doesn't understand. How can Bucciarati stand to look at him, now that he knows how weak-hearted and selfish he is? How can he not just be willing to work with him, but ... still want to be his friend?]

How can you still have faith in me after that day?

[After Fugo has already betrayed him?]