[Giovanni remains standing straight-backed and attentive, though that chord of visible tension is still present, deepens, if anything. His lips part around an answer, close again. Catching himself, this time. Prevents himself from saying that he suspects he'd never been born at all, only made, a specimen grown in some lab, a cold clinical place that has little to do with the lives of 'real' people, like this man.

But of course he can't say that. And it's not what he seems to be asking, besides. An act of imagination is required, one that seems - to him - like treachery. It's a dangerous thing, to imagine placing himself in the life of autonomy.]

With all due respect, it seems like an unproductive question. I am, of course, satisfied with the life I've been given. Again, without meaning to offend, I don't think I'd choose one like yours, even if I could. I think I would be be bored. Mine is...interesting, if nothing else. Hahah.

[Interesting, perhaps, but the truth is no, he wouldn't have chosen it if he could. Still--]

I am what I was supposed to be.