"We're always at risk," he says airily, his smile pained beneath the compression of fingers to concrete, not unlike the stress Fring levered over his arm as he forced the bone into a groaning tremor until it snapped under combined force and direction and magnitude.

His fingers ache.

This is going to make typing pure hell.

His hand flexes at it is freed, curling fingers into a fist in a rapid clenching and unclenching of bone and muscle, his tone implicating the encounter as little more than a particularly annoying inconvenience rather than any threat to his life. "I'll send you a fucking email, given that you're so terribly interested."