[ "If it ever is" – and it's as good as a punch to the gut, the way the words steal the air from his lungs. And she just drives it home, that feeling of weakness, of helplessness, that reminder of how goddamn broken he is. It's like nails raking across his ribs, an icicle piercing through that "black hole" of his heart.

His good hand clenches around the grip of his crutch, knuckles turning white and metal creaking beneath him. ]

Well fine, then. [ He turns back around, the aches and pains from today's session dulled by the dark, seething mass in his chest. ] So long as we're on the same page. You don't got aims to keep me, and I ain't got it in my sights to be kept – least of all by you.

[ He lumbers down the hall to the room he's been staying in, and that bitterness lances through his chest again. Good Lord, he's been here far too long. If he could, he'd gather up his sparse belongings and leave tonight, with the moon high overhead to make up for the lack of working streetlamps around the neighborhood. Faraday no longer lacks for money, thanks to the payment he received for his part in the protection of this damned town.

And maybe he should leave, he thinks, reaching the door to his room. He pauses, hand on the knob, and looks up, anger still stark on his face.

Coldly, with a sour twist to his mouth, ]

Thank you for the hospitality, Mrs. Cullen.

[ And with that, he admits himself into the room, the door slamming shut behind him. ]