Daniel flinches, short and involuntary, as if trying and failing to shrink away from the words and their hard, flinted bite.

He couldn't feel this before, the last time he watched Johnny implement his power to save his life. The pervading sense of wrongness, the anxiety rolling off the other man in waves. Or - the anxiety was always there. Now it's just edged with something Daniel can't define.

Or doesn't want to define.

"Yeah," he says at last, looking back at the walls, expecting them to undulate and lock around them, hermetically sealing them within in some obscene parody of a cenotaph, devoid of light, devoid of air, devoid of anything but their terror and their claustrophobia. "I guess it doesn't matter."

Seeing as he's already dead.