She is his cautiously crafted masterpiece, the beauty of the world and his reason for living captured in the soul of one woman, the one woman he claimed as his. He is captivated by her, bound by the aura she exudes, and does not care to ever let go. To him, the rest of the world is unseeing; ignorant, blind and too caught up in oblivion to stop and appreciate the paragon that is Sydney Bristow. What is one person's trash is another person's treasure, and Sydney is his treasure.
Snap. Like a twig over-exposed to repelling pressures, he snaps, pushed to the very boundary by frustrating ignorance. "Her name is Sydney," he speaks as if he would to a small disobedient child. "It's always 'her to you, to everyone! It's always her, and she, like she doesn't have a name, like she's never existed to you, meant nothing to you, to anyone!"
"We don’t want to forget," Weiss tries to assure him, but his assurance too, is futile.
But his whispered reply cuts through the fake assurance and the words he sees as lies, voice unwavering in the semi-darkness. "Well you’ve done a damn good job of forgetting her name already."