Frisk's stage whisper is an irritation, and nothing more. An irritation is endurable. The rumble of Reinhardt's words, to the cold contrary, are far more than irritating.

Chara stands. Smoothly, fluidly, discarding the flower in their hands as they decide it is better suited to be trod underfoot. This exchange is deserving of nothing; not their time, not their patience, and certainly not the effort of a bright, clear smile.

"Do not give me your pity."