There's a ripple of something like tension as she moves and by the time she's finished her question, Bruce is several meters away and facing her, standing, the space beneath their feet no longer ice but wood, the terrace of a monastery, now huddled into a shadow of the great landscape they were floating among just before. The transition is surreal and disorienting to re-adjust to, though the move itself is as immediate and responsive as a fighter slipping out of a hold or a wolf under a fence; the first hint that she might be visiting a wild animal instead of a man.

As for Bruce himself, his expression is unchanged. Unreadable. He looks at the device from where he is. The model, the wear and tear, the nicks on the keys, the tiny silver embossed sticker on the back.

"Yes," he answers, because it's not like he's going to say, No, but it looks like my co-CEO's.