[Secret seventy. A real spooky godfather. He'd have good taste in music for a secret seventy, though -- not that she recognizes most of the bands. They logos make them look like they'd be good, and clearly that's the best indicator of quality.

Ryder hums low, frowning as she rests her chin on the top of her book. She's trusts his words, and wouldn't have expected otherwise, but it rubs her the wrong way. It takes a moment of chewing on her lip to articulate why.]

Okay, so what's the problem? You don't trust me to take care of myself, fine -- I suck. I can't -- miss danger when it isn't there, it's. Not...like I'm...gonna make you regret leaving it to -- me.