The muscles in his chest tighten, painfully visible beneath the creases and lines of the shirt he has been wearing for days. It's possible that at one point it was white. He had not taken note prior to awakening in the mirror, and it has become difficult to tell now between the room's dimness and the unholy cast of the hall's pale light that throws his looming captor into shadowed relief.

There is likewise no possible way of torquing his reaction to Fring's subtle advance into anything less stark beneath the other man's unbearably incisive scrutiny. A muscle in his cheek jumps. His breathing catches, tense and shallow.

"There was no enterprise," he hisses. "Merely common interest."