[ Water into pot, pot onto burner. His eyes linger on it, on the red beginning beneath it, before he looks up at the Espada. ]

To begin with, the words alone are meaningless. But, more importantly, as far as I'm concerned, you don't owe me an apology. The idea is not a little absurd. You were an obstacle, and a very frustrating one at that, but it was also, in essence, a war. We were invading your land. Your methods were excessive and grotesque, but you were defeated before you could do any experimenting.

So... [ Nudging up his glasses. ]

Mala suerte, Octava. I neither want nor need your apology, and even if I was so inclined, I'd never believe you sincere. Either way, it isn't me to whom you should be apologizing.