"What? No—" The accusation's like a needle to sensitive skin (she's worked hard to maintain her cover, to be anything but threatening) and it spurs her to instinctively yank her own wrist back, gun angled harmlessly towards the sky rather than at him. A second later, she adds, brow pinched up in sharpened concern: "Can't you see them?"

Because if not— if he hasn't even registered what's been weighing him down like an anchor— the question becomes not how to get him loose, but which one of them is going crazy.