The question makes his blood run cold: in a direct way, he isn't sure why. Or--she shouldn't be able to ask something that direct, even with what he said about the comic. That was just fiction, as far as anyone was concerned. Only he and Parker knew it was anything else, and even they didn't really talk about it.

Parker saw things. Jude just believed him.

Nobody had to know if any of the things in his sketchbook were more than his imagination. If he blinked things out of existence, if the world smelled rotten sometimes. It's happened less since he arrived here, not more, and he doesn't know what that means because he's not going to think about it. Looking at Clary from the side, leaned elbows to knees, all he can do is shrug: "If it's some kind of hero thing, nobody's gotten very far on that," he says. "Nobody's even figured out why we're really here, or how to get out. Some people don't even seem to care if we do."

He wouldn't put himself in that group, but he doubts his ability to contribute enough that he's left it to others, and stuck to making paper.