Daniel doesn't panic often. Not in his nature. Doesn't scare easy, responds well to stress. But his pulse has been slowly but steadily ticking up ever since leaving the place where Armand killed him, and now, trying to conceptualize returning to Brooklyn, it's a frantic beat like a thrashing bird's wings, and he's breathing too deep without exhaling for long enough, and his vision is starting to tunnel.

Classic signs. He attempts to identify the source so he can confront it. But, well.

The source seems to be everything.

"Maybe," he sounds unsteady, uncertain, "we could wait a day or two before leaving."

To think. To not think. He grips Louis' hand.

"I don't know what I'm going back to."