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The princess has nothing to provide anymore when he returns to her cell.
She stares up at him defiantly with eyes that must be brown when seen without the reddish tint that colors all of his world; asks in a clear voice what else he wants.
He can sense her oozing despair and dread even as she tries to show neither; in different circumstances, this might have been impressive. It was impressive when he met her.
But now all he sees is her dark hair in elaborate buns framing a face too soft for a core-worlder, cleaned from blood as much as the conditions of her captivity allow. She's all in white, too. It is not difficult to imagine her battle-ready, with a blaster full of Nubian plasma; how easy it is to momentarily forget that it is not her staring up at him.
He does not care for what she has to say to him, only that eerie resemblance - the one insult he cannot forgive.
But there is also fire in her, something sharp that feels even more familiar. Too familiar, the Force whispers.
All it takes is a movement of his hand, the barest touch into the pain and anger and grief that accompany him constantly.
There is a gasp and the Force swells with shock and hatred; how would she despise him now...
He turns his head away before she stumbles, clawing at her throat. He cannot bear to watch this, memories of a scene two decades earlier still burned into his mind, ghost of the past haunting him no matter how much he wants to forget her.
He clenches his fist and hears a crunch of crushed bone, a soft thud; and then the only sound is that of his ventilator.
He leaves without looking back.