[ He balances her now, gives her purpose to give some effort in her tired life. Had she more reason to find purpose... perhaps she'd be on the opposite side of his gun barrel, not the one behind him. This was hardly the first time she's accompanied worse men, the difference was she grew tired of cruelty and tired of wishing for something. Instead, what she demands from Jason wasn't even pizza or a roof over her head. A thinly-veiled promise that she plans to collect no matter what.

It wasn't until he approaches and tugs her arm without restraint. She winces only for the mere force and how close he finds himself – lazily she sits up enough to abandon her hold on her stuffed cheese blob.

His concern drips over his lips, a futile attempt to conceal how he looks at her behind his mask. C.C. is far too old to ignore the sign of someone with a poor pokerface, where words speak in volume. A stammer – a correction makes her eyebrows furrow down. ]

Isn't it fortunate I'm no God or a Superman?

[ She knows what he means, but she's a smartass on her own accord too. To be a buffer and hide her own response – how her eyes linger up to him with a slight tremble, as if red was trying so desperately to flush across her stoneface. As if color was trying to return to snow. ]

You're being sentimental tonight. A promise like that is like asking the sky never to bleed. For the wind to freeze.

[ He can assess the wound all he wants, but she sits there with only a tilt of her head to him, when they shift back to business. ]

Bigger pizzas to bake sounds better, but... so long as you're not foolish. They know there's two so I hope your goons are worth something.