He wants to hollow out Raphael's smarmy face with his fist. And it feels different. Not the all-consuming ache of hunger for bloodshed gnawing inside him. The pale echo of that is wasting away, existing as scars on a psyche but shrivelled in a way that is quickly eclipsed by other things. How long that may last, he isn't trying to hold out too much hope either way.

No, the violence feels too righteous. Just, even. Retribution for wrongness, the answer to a grievous move whose only countermove should be punishment. He feels his fingers itching to either run the devil through or start swinging.

But the hand at his shoulder is enough to bring him back out of that dark tunnel. Enough to pull him to the light and keep him on track, because that's what this situation needs. Somebody able to shoulder a predicament like this without feeling like they may fall into murderous pieces at any moment.

There is no question about what the answer must be. The quakes are considerably worse even in the short time they've been in the city, even if his own mind is stuck on the fact Gortash is in Avernus again. The memory of the first time they went to steal the crown is hazy at best, but that detail he remembers with clarity.

"We don't have time for this," he finally says, voice still a ground up mess of barely restrained emotion. It doesn't take a genius to see that Raphael has got them in an impossible spot, and with no other answer forthcoming from his companions, he must agree.

"Gortash and his stone for the crown. Is that what you're saying? How do we even know you have him, or that he's in one piece?"