Rinzler's gaze stays down, but the twitch of gesture—of ambivalence—doesn't escape him. Surprising leniency for an error of that magnitude. Almost enough to make him wonder... if, of course, Clu weren't already dangling a different question of consequence overhead.

Contact teases at the edges of his code: not the shift and tug of unknown values changed, but a lingering, ethereal pressure. He doesn't move, doesn't react—is locked and tense with stubborn spite to not do so. Clu isn't moving forward—not with edits or repair. Just... playing. Making the potential clear.

Stiffly, the black mask ducks a margin further, and rises back. True. She won't. Just do it.