Another long sip, sweetness coating the back of her tongue— she was always prone to bitterness and spice, but there's something addictive in the richness of this drink, and though Sombra's slow to finish it, she hasn't put it down just yet.

"Different how?"

She has to ask. Wants to see it for herself: the microexpressions— or the absence of them— what still lives beneath the surface of Widowmaker's thoughts, and how close they come to breaking through. Cold and aloof, she pretends to feel nothing.

Sombra knows better.