It is kind of hard to see everything unfold from the prone position he's been strapped into on the table, and that's not helped by the fog of drugs permeating everything. Mostly, he gets the noises, loud and comfortingly familiar since they mark violence happening to people who definitely aren't him, and an impression of movements that skate around the edge of familiar and back into really not. The best look he gets at his saviour - Tom - is when he's hauling away the man with the razor blade, and oh. He should have figured it'd be him.

There's a name on the tip of his tongue but it's not right, and it's one that he definitely shouldn't be saying in the middle of a strange club full of strange people doing strange and violent things to each other, and still potentially him, because he doesn't know why Tom has decided to stick his neck out and drag him out of the clutches of this specific peril - he's with me, he'd said, but Tim is most distinctly not with him, to the best of his knowledge. Is he about to be?

Anyone who can take out a room full of career criminals that quickly does bear further investigation, so maybe he should go along with that, for right now. As long as it doesn't involve more knives. Or more drugs. He would really like to skip those.

Banishing the name he can't say, he rolls out the Alvin identity, the twang and slightly drawling effect of the drugs heavily evident. "I hope you're planning to pay, 'cause I'm pretty sure they wrecked my shirt. I told 'em not to."

That could refer to... a couple more things than the shirt, of course.