Small talk or loud talk, it might be difficult to hear a reply over the resounding crash from the front door.

It's not just onomatopoeic, but literal. It's also pretty easy to guess why. The young man who screeches into the hall after a moment's disorientation clearly has his hands full just staying on his feet, never mind coming up with sensible descriptive imagery. He's panting as he staggers to a halt, grimacing, trailing a faintly glowing afterimage that begins to fade long before his panic does, and the damp cloth of his shirt is more rusty brown than white. There's no sign of his jewellery any more than there is of Xion's.

But he is on his feet, which is more than can be said of the small, dark-haired figure limply slung across his shoulder and back like so much dead weight. ...Well, not nearly enough weight, and still seeping. Bleeding and bleeding, despite the best Yosuke could do with a torn coat, a half-remembered scrap of first aid via osmosis and five seconds.

Which means he's not important here, if he ever was.

"Look, it's okay, we made it," he says, indistinctly at first, maybe only for his own benefit by this point. "...Oh god, I hope we made it."

But he raises his head the moment it stops spinning, and his voice at the same time. "Hey! Someone...! We got a patient here!"