[ Instantly, Emmrich's expression turns rueful, long lashes brushing the crest of his cheek as he glances down at his hands. It's hardly as though he isn't aware of what had happened, but the lingering question remains: how is one meant to atone for such a thing? What would satisfy those who think ill of him? He's aware of the appetites of the manor, having seen the mutilation of Matt Jamison posted to the network. A fate that's been spared him, thus far, though he expects it, like expecting rain when one sees a cloud on the distant horizon.

But, for now, without hesitation: ]

Of course.

[ To explain matters — or attempt to — is the very least he can do. ]

Though the boundaries of my own understanding may limit how useful — or clarifying — you find any of my answers.