So she wasn't kidding about the squirrels, then. At least, if she's being honest about it. He's got no real way of knowing other than a lack of deaths spread about the town (Peeta aside, obviously). His eyes seem to drop as he thinks about this, flickering from left to right and then back again.

It's a lot to swallow.

They flicker up at her desperate plea, and it's because of the way she sounds, the way it resonates with his own personal history, that he drops his hand from the doorknob. I don't want this, she says, but it's who I am now and it tugs at his strings. Plays him like a violin.

"I get it," he murmurs finally, hesitantly. His feet find a careful path toward the bed, and he tentatively lowers himself onto it. Scrubs a flesh hand over his mouth, because...

Wow.

This place is fucking insane.

"Does that... happen often?" He asks finally, turning his head to look at her. The incident in the hallway, the red eyes, the growling.