He wants to be a leader, a warrior, a someone, a something. And it's this need that only makes the hunger in him more intense. The chrysalis of wealth and privilege that's held him is going to break. Roman can't run from himself or the true nature in his blood and destiny. For now he just feels all kinds of restlessness and a need to stop running and fight.

It's not about out weirding. If it was she would win. There are oddities hidden in the hemlocks and in the blinding lights of the White Tower he won't even think to question. He already doesn't. Any sass or confusion are there because it's blaringly obvious.

"I'm plenty old for coffee," he drops his cigarette and crushes it under a loafer. "You usually buy coffee for people who ask around for drugs? Is it a consolation prize?"