The weight to Greta's words is one he can ill afford to ignore. Left without a vast quantity of options at his disposal, Nicholas turns neatly to face her. He eyes her with an admixture of wariness and confusion, uncertain as to what she would stand to gain by making that sort of oddly specific claim. Greta's tone is one of absolute certainty - regardless of whether it is an outright fabrication, it is one to which she, for her part, wholly subscribes.

"I've no idea what you're saying," he says flatly. "I've never lived in Manhattan. Thank fucking god for that."

That dense metropolis, when opposed to the glittering sweep of familiar university buildings and jagged rocks set against the coast, resembles something of his personal idea of hell. And again, there is no denying the things that stir in his head at the thought.

He wonders, with a faint tremor of apprehension, if there may be some credence to her words.