Frost's attention is needling and interested when Ilde speaks up, listening with his head tilted cattish and filter tip of his cigarette hovered not far from his mouth. That focus is passed back to Ivan, finally, before he takes another deep inhale of smoke, cycloptic orange eye flaring brighter as the embers burn. Breathing being a thing he only does when given specific reason.

"They can be unified," he counters. "Given reason that's not too complex to grasp, like blood, power and freedom to fuck around. But you're right - all I'm hearing is rhetoric about laying low and going to ground. Disappointing."

He flicks ash off his cigarette with more agitation than his voice suggests. "So who's wanting the city off-kilter?"