You're halfway to a song.

[ Marcus Melts the Monsters. Isaac pinches paper into spark, takes a drag longer than strictly necessary. A chronic case of dramatics, true — and a moment for decision. ]

Busy, [ He agrees. ] Not been so busy as I might. There have been eyes.

[ Better now, as an offering of trust, than someone's inevitable fuckup. His fingers splay, ]

Not on me. Near enough to warrant caution.