Hunter’s shape in her mind knows what to do. She must counter. She must require them to extend themselves. If they do not feel pain, they will not believe she has accepted their contrition. They must make a sacrifice to her honour, or they will not believe they have bought it. She shakes her head, feeling the interrogation room chair under her thighs and back, feeling her ears pop as Rebus drops into the dark below the thermocline—and in the action, finds that she knows now what she needs to say.