Jess Brightwell. Credence commits it to memory, and his eyes actually rake over the other's face to get that down pat, too. Just to make sure. Just in case.

He hopes he won't find Jess crumpled and lifeless because whatever is inside him took his scare tactics to heart. He wanted to say something, to thank him, but all he can really say is "Credence" in a hushed, reverent tone as he tries to repeat the phrase 'go away' over and over in his head. Maybe then the smoky blackness will leave him.

This man, the one that jumps around rooftops like it's nothing, is just trying to help in his own way. He hopes.

He knows handshakes, though. Even if his hands are scarred and calloused, he still does it to be polite. What Credence isn't expecting is something to be pressed into his palm, firmly and confidently. When he looks down, he doesn't bother to mask his confusion.

'hello, how are you? be careful.'
'okay.'
'have a knife.'

"Are you--" He cuts himself off. Jess Brightwell looks nothing if not sure. He looks at the other--really looks--and then back at the makeshift knife.

"I don't know how to use it."

He doesn't want to tell Jess he doesn't need to.