It was an adamant, steel-edged statement. He didn't move, in the armor, didn't seem to move a muscle. All but his eyes, which narrowed considerably. He had no sympathy for her trauma, no knowledge of the memory she reviewed. Even if he had, Victor von Doom would likely still have no sympathy.
"You will go home. Go back to your life. Pretend there are not little creations wriggling in every little part of you under your skin, pretend that fate gave you absolutely no gifts or give a thought to how thankful you should be that you live."
Now the eye slid to her. "Go home, and pretend that life is perfect and without consequence, that bad things do not happen, and pretend that there may not be a moment, for all that is known, in which your nanomachines may decide to revolt and pick you apart cell by cell."