Rust doesn't flinch from the possibility—doesn't touch a hand to the gun clipped to his belt, either. He hums deep in his throat, considering. “And let all this pain you got me in go to waste?” It had, after all, been a very deliberate working-over.

His gaze sharpens. “The rabbit.” Left in his trap as a taunt, limbs snapped, inscrutable message clawed into its forehead. “Was that meant to be me?”