So the signs of fire are signs of arson. He wonders why they're allowed to live here at all. What benefit do they provide that the locals aren't willing or able to do themselves? Has everyone like them, the "Void Touched," chosen to stay? Is there nowhere else to go?

Larger concerns slip to the back of his mind as they enter her room. Increasingly, the sounds of revelry have fallen away. The enveloping noise has become the muted crackle of laughter heard through a single window. They are alone. The emptiness of the room is welcoming; the stagnancy of the air relaxes him.

Each tug on his wrist rattles him a little less. Hap helps with the mattress, holding it up so she can retrieve the knife. He needn't have asked why she kept in here. He could have just waited. That's not a knife one carries concealed.

It's for hunting.

Hap's eyes may widen, but he keeps his promise. He's not going to back out. It's sharp. It'll get the job done. He offers his shackled forearm and traces a line along the back with his finger.

"Here, like this." Head down-turned, he looks up at her. "Veins aren't close to the surface, so the bleeding will be manageable."