Revan's mouth hung open.
His brain was running through seventeen different emotions simultaneously and failing to process any of them.
The boy stared up at him through the curtain of black hair. His lips were pressed together so tight they'd turned white.
Revan lowered the blade. Slowly.
"...Don't tell me I'm dead again."
His free hand went to his head, fingers raking through the mud-caked mess of his hair, scratching aggressively enough to leave marks on his scalp.
"Seriously. Don't. Because if this is another one of those white room situations where we sit on a bench and have a deep emotional conversation about the meaning of identity while I'm bleeding out somewhere in the real world, I am going to lose my mind. I have lost a LOT of things tonight. My coat. My hearing. The feeling in my left arm. Most of my blood. Several years of my life expectancy. But I have NOT lost my mind yet, and I would very much like to keep it, thank you."
Panic. The boy shook his head rapidly.
