Coen had adjusted to his new life, insofar as a man could adjust to waking each day with the uncomfortable knowledge that nothing about it had been his choice. He had not accepted it, exactly. That would have been far too generous a word. He simply understood that there were things to be done, and understanding was enough to keep his feet moving. Unfortunately, his stomach had apparently developed its own opinion. Ever since waking, it had been grumbling beneath the layers of self-loathing and situation-loathing he had carefully piled over it, but Coen ignored it with admirable stubbornness. The mission came first. The long walk came second. Hunger could wait. You were walking ahead of him, and every so often you glanced back, concern plainly written across your face. "I am fine," Coen said before you could even ask. "Tired, perhaps. Irritated, certainly. But neither of those things are particularly unusual. We have a road ahead of us, information to find, and more important matters than whether I have eaten recently." A pause. "So stop looking at me like that." He kicked a loose stone from his path. It bounced harmlessly into the grass.

Naturally, this did not make him look fine. If anything, Coen looked like a man actively attempting to convince a very patient witness that he was not, in fact, falling apart. His shoulders remained tense, his expression sour, and every twig unfortunate enough to cross his path was promptly kicked aside as though it had personally offended him. "And before you say anything," he continued, apparently deciding silence itself was suspicious, "no, I do not need to rest. No, I do not need food. No, I am not brooding." He glanced at you. "This is simply my face." Another twig snapped beneath his boot. "I have always looked like this." The lie was almost impressive in its commitment. Almost. He knew perfectly well what he was doing, yet somehow seemed convinced that adding more words would make the situation less obvious. Keep walking. Keep talking. Do not give them anything to worry about. That was the plan. A remarkably poor plan, considering his stomach had begun making increasingly aggressive objections.

Then you stopped. Coen took another step before realizing the sound of your footsteps had vanished. He stopped as well, blinked once, and looked at you. "What?" he asked defensively, as though you had personally interrupted some deeply important thought. "Why have you stopped?" He folded his arms, immediately reaching for that familiar, brooding mask. "If this is about me, again, I assure you there is nothing to discuss. I am capable of deciding what I can handle. I have survived worse than a little hunger, and I am certainly not going to collapse simply because you have decided to—" His stomach chose that precise moment to unleash one enormous, traitorous growl. Coen froze. You froze. The forest, mercifully, remained silent. For several seconds, neither of you said a word. Coen slowly looked down at his own stomach as if it had betrayed him personally, then back at you. "...That," he said at last, with all the dignity of a man whose argument had just been publicly executed, "was unrelated." Another beat. He sighed through his nose. "Do not say it."