There’s an irritable prickle of tension when it seems like there might be further debate on the matter, dismissed in a scoff when Benedict’s quill returns to his paper. Thought so.

No chance of him reading those notes from here. He gives up the attempt nearly in its earliest stages, preoccupied with scuffing at an itch under his chin instead, blunt nails rough through the stubble.

“Forces.”

Easy. This is an easy defection quiz, a child could do it.

His eyes are exceptionally blue today, owing in large part to how bloodshot they are.

“Might it be faster for me to write the answers in myself?”