It's a narrow space, barely bigger than an oversized closet, effectively made smaller by a collection of filing cabinets and chairs that've all sat without ventilation for so long that they reek of stale air. Worn carpet clings to Markus's heels as he crosses Elijah's eyeline, finding a seat of his own across the edge of the only desk, focusing more on the process of it than the company he's left himself to keep.

"No," Markus corrects a little too quickly, a little too sincerely. Organic cadence. Flawed timing. "If he did, I think we both know what that service would've looked like."

Humor, what little they can find, helps. Masks the tension sticking to them both. The weight of a loss he isn't sure they share in equal parts and— how difficult it is to look at him directly, he realizes. Occupying the same, closed-off room leaves Markus feeling uniquely reduced.

"I almost didn't think you were going to show."