We're not talking about me. We're talking about you, you stupid fuck. I knew from the start there's something wrong with you, but it sure was a fun surprise seeing how much I'd underestimated it.

[ There's the grit of dirt underfoot as he takes another half-step closer. It's barely a few paces separating them now, and Gen's hand still lingers at his weapon.

His nerves are itching. It's hard resisting the urge to lash out, and it's only that forced, tenuous look of false calm on Dokja's face that reminds him to hold back for now. ]

-- but sure, go ahead, if you think you know anything about me.

[ A low huff, not quite a dismissive laugh. ]

Unlike a certain somebody, I don't go pathetically begging for pain to anyone who'll give me the time of day. You don't know shit about me.