"You're not even worthy of making into my art," opprobrium flourishes amid each syllable, befouled enunciations, as though the very sentiment of the procured small talk was to be considered offensive to the photographer. "Like a statue you are, your body stringent with the fatigue of playing this little game, brutto e sporco.. Chi ti credi di essere? Please, keep running, soon, your body will atrophy into something obscenely beautiful and I will splinter your bones and contort you into something half-decent enough to spare a passing glance at."

Sebastian winces accordingly. His very durable threshold for threats made by psychopathsreaching its limit, and momentarily, he aspires that Stefano see the scowl flitting his demeanor, even past his reading frames. His hands ascend – fingers tousling his own hair in frustration,coming away unclean, cut of his nails dark with gore, it might have been his own blood, albeit he couldn't be sure.

"Fuck that," downturned lips, speech impeded - underlain with a tired growl. Conversation begetspatience that the former detective didn't think he had anymore. But being out of bullets meant that he had to talk his way out of a precarious situation. Too bad he had never been much of a negotiator.

"How you stagger, onlooker, so unbalanced, ungraceful.." disapproving.