She stares up at him as he explains, trying to get her head around it. All of it sounds too fantastic to be believed, and no sooner has she had that thought than Jack says it aloud, and her incredulity softens into a small smile. She doesn't know what to think about the story — the idea of a demon stored in the body, as he puts it, or of parades being thrown for him. But Jack is fascinated. When he admits to her that he touched it, the tattoo, she feels like she can see a shape to all this, emphasis or confirmation of what she'd already long suspected. Because it does feel like an admission, the way he tells her. She looks at him, though her expression remains blank apart from rote curiosity.

After a moment she hums in acknowledgment and tips her head back down, leaning on his shoulder. She doesn't know what to say, or if she should say anything. Sometimes he talks to sort through his thoughts; sometimes he talks because he wants something in return. Understanding. Advice. Permission. She can't tell which it is, or if he even knows he's doing it.

"Why'd he tell you all this?" she asks at length, her voice even. No judgment; no skepticism. She asks it in earnest, even if it is by some measure rhetorical.