He knows what she's doing; it's kind of her M.O., really: slow and steady movements, with just enough force to keep him on edge. There's no need to rush this, even if part of him would rather get out of this mess sooner rather than later. But hey, if he has to be in this situation with anyone, he's glad it's her. Their understanding goes beyond needing words, and whatever she's doing, he'll just go along with it.

"Maybe a little. Those guys-" He stops, choosing his words carefully. He hasn't talked about this very much with anyone. "They might not have hurt me or any of you directly, but..." He'd cross his arms if he could, while he picks at the thoughts spinning through his mind. "They got to live, while a lot of others didn't. Why?"

There's no answer to that, really, and he knows it. It was 50%, and numbers are more or less impartial. A shiver trails up his spine as she moves the knife along his back and along the scars he knows she's seeing. It's nothing she hasn't seen before, and while he doesn't show that off to just anyone, he has no problems letting her look. Or letting her knife look, really.

"You're good at building it, you know."