Big bright eyes seem to burn that little bit brighter as his words are swerved past, as another item is shoved forward. His hands curling at his sides, his posture perfectly tense, poised, heedless of plaster dust greying his sweater, dusty in his hair. The scrapes on his face are already healed, leaving behind dry blood.

"It was Louis' passion. I maintained it."

Was. A slip, maybe. What does Louis have passion for now? Or maybe, was, in that Louis isn't here, Louis is a figment.

Armand steps nearer.

"Your point, Mr. Molloy? Do you wish to itemise the list of all the nothing I have left?"

He is quiet, but not. A speaking voice, but one that fills the room a little oddly. Puts pressure on the air.