Clumsy but curious, Daniel is an accidentally fumbling mental guest. His presence is a kind one, though, and if Louis thought maybe he really was hiding any real resentment, this should clear it up: nothing in him but affection and fierce care, despite that inescapable need to push forward for brutal, scathing truth. (Maybe Armand was right. It's his drug. He can't stop.)

Not entirely an open book, he's already become adept at locking away certain things (iron vault doors, no access, memories of transforming, opinions about his maker) but welcoming. Happy to telepathically hold hands, even if he's not sure what that is besides a stabilizing gesture. Daniel rubs his nose again. Trying very hard not to match words aloud with words thought.

'They owe us both. It's just collecting the tab.'

Oh-so-innocent.

"No, your butler keeps his distance."

And if there's anyone else (the man with the silver hair, glasses?), it's not of note. Handlers in formalwear, old-fashioned, things Daniel has noticed like: they aren't tech-illiterate by any means, but the organization has been around for so long that they're constantly in a state of upgrading to every new modern era, and like any organization, it takes time. He's made the most of his middling sleight of hand, and so far, no one's noticed.