If Kane asked, Gene wouldn't cop to it, but he knew the feeling; even now, so far removed from Zhang, he still could sometimes feel an armored hand closing around his throat, the bruises, the scratch at his hairline where the ring stolen from his mother had dug into his skin, the scratch that had become a tiny scar that was still visible, even now.

But he was patient. He waited for the other man to get himself more steady before pulling him up to his feet.

"Tea," he said firmly. It engaged multiple senses; sight, smell, taste, touch. It was what he'd done after that vision of the dying baby turtles: made himself some tea.

"There's a shop around the corner that caters to Foreigners."