He shakes his head, politely easing her concern. "I'm fine," he assures her. And then, a slight curve of one side of his mouth, a shift in his tone that suggests maybe he's kidding, and he adds: "I'm tougher than I look."

It's true. Adam's on the taller side but hardly the solid, strapping sort this cohort seems to draw in, if his passing reviews of video on the network and his quick appraisal of people coming and going tonight, matching faces with broadcasts, tell him anything. But he's wiry under that pasty-British-citydwelling-gent appearance, stronger and fitter than one might expect even without his hidden advantage.

But immortality is one hell of an advantage.

"I do notice, however, you seem to have caught the attention of the club's security--I assume that's what the three serious-looking gentlemen with arms folded, watching you, are. Shall we get you to your feet so they see there's no harm done and they go away?"