"Prob'ly not," the Balladeer disagrees. He hasn't been here long at all. The metaphorical blood is clearly still on his metaphorical hands. But he lets Greta tug him upright anyway, and gets his feet underneath himself once he's in a position to. She's probably not going to let it go, and he doesn't want to make her try and drag him around.

Once up, he stumbles a little and catches himself on the edge of the sink. "I just - I went in here 'cause I heard you coming," he admits. It didn't make any difference anyway.