Tortured like this. He's not sure he'd call it torture, unless one considers drawn out hours of boredom and forced stillness torture, or having to listen to that man speak, play ridiculous games with him as though he has nothing better to do with his time. Giovanni sighs, expression remaining cut loose from emotion, and slowly he shakes his head.

"I'm not hurt, now," not hurt now because all the wounds he'd received have already healed, even if he can still feel the ghosts of the man's fingers as they'd crushed his skull, pushed their way inside, the pain of it sharp and breathtaking. Nothing sticks for long. Not for something like him.

He takes a few fluid steps towards the stranger now standing before him, his would-be rescuer, rolls his shoulders in a helpless kind of shrug.

"I doubt he's about to let me go, just like that. I can't fight him," because he'd tried, hadn't he? And what had happened? The man said 'sit' and he'd sunk down to his knees without meaning to, his body no longer his own under Zollner's command.

It seems a hopeless thing, trying to walk out of here, in the wake of his monumental failure.