He presses his eyes closed. Turns from her, and walks mechanically to his desk to set both hands on the edge, his back to her. There's a faint scraping sound; his dark, horn-hard nails have left new furrows in the already-pockmarked wood.

"Shit," he mutters, almost absently. His fingers twitch. He sucks in a breath to try and calm himself and think outside of, think above the anger that's crowding in around him, cramming his throat. Tangy as copper. "You selfish," he begins and then with a mental effort something akin to hauling a ship's wheel around against the current in a screaming storm he shuts himself up before he can do more damage. No matter how satisfying it would be.

"Your friend," he says, voice tight. It's difficult to form sentences. "Alive?"