She's patient enough to wait him out, sitting there cross-legged by the edge of the mat, hands still slowly moving as they finish the last few stitches on that patch and tie off the ends of the thread. Should be enough time for him to reach whatever conclusion he's going to reach.

In the end, he decides to tell her, and she does him the decency of watching the entire time, hands folded in her lap as he recites ages, specialties, combat, certifications. Garden, he says. Maybe there's something cross-cultural about places that make children into weapons. Call it something innocuous, make it a home, a family. Bring them up knowing only loyalty, obedience, orders. "Sounds like a well-rounded education," she answers, and there's a faint dry humor in the words, something he might catch as familiar. "Weapons training, ballroom dancing--I'm assuming a basic educational curriculum, too, plus a few classes you wouldn't find on your average lists." She shrugs, a gesture that says enough.

"I was six when I first went to the Red Room." It's a part of her she hasn't shared with anyone else. He's a stranger, yes; and sharing with those is still dangerous. But he's still looking at her like he's not sure if she's going to eat him or not, and so.