He does not like the sound of this. John's wings drop open with the instinct to spread them, to prepare his escape route. Again he has to draw them tight, impatient with these new and clumsy tells.

"Oh? Where else could we have met?" That smooth tone is giving way to a growl, annoyed at— all of this. Everything. He doesn't want to deal with any of it right now, certainly not from this nosy and unimportant young scavenger. "Boston?" Not England, that would've been far too long ago. "New York? Perhaps I merely have a common face."

Scarred and gaunt as he is, it makes a bitter joke.