... There is no feasible way to politely respond to this. A harsh breath, both labored and heavy, leaves his mouth at the mocking (?) comment, waspish to the point it could be deemed a sigh were it not for the strain on his body at the gaping wound on his stomach ( it, however, was still one, for no amount of blood loss could distract him from the rather obvious observation ). Maroons drop down to the laceration marring his skin and tissue, a particularly pointed motion done before he’s looking back up to the detective’s eyes. ❝ Yes ... so it seems. ❞ It’s a difficulty to voice through the gritting teeth, but he somehow manages to not unlearn twenty plus years of noble training by his family and tutors. If there was an Archon of patience, he might just have to become devout to it. You’re very astute, ever thought about becoming a detective ? He withholds such remark with a vice grip that’s even more agonizing than the source of his dizziness.
Another breath, slower this time. Perhaps when he is in less pain, he might not be as biting with his thoughts, less quick to condemn – people do say the strangest of things when in panic ( they did not look panicked ). ❝ ... Are you not going to lend a hand ... ? ❞
