He inhaled again, watching. Carefully. There was a flicker of trepidation on his face, wondering and worrying about who this was, or what this meant. Why did he seem to be pushing the import thing, was it because he was the fucking author on the subject, or was it because they suspected something? Paranoia flooded his senses, leaving just a hard edge.

Something that was, unfortunately, decidedly Mitchell. The way his brows knotted, the way his eyes narrowed and the hard line of his mouth. He'd had extensive surgery, yes, but even so, in the occasional light, he looked like himself still. Even without the strong jaw, large nose, and thin lips, there were parts of him he couldn't deny, or fight off.

When caged like an animal, one revealed their true nature, and he was quickly becoming backed into a corner.

"I actually have my own sources for imports. How did you think I got my intel? You have to talk to people to write about them," he paused, taking another long, slow inhale, fighting his fight or flight instinct.

As soon as it was in, he exhaled, not even taking the time to savor it, just letting the burn flood, and then pour out. "And before you ask, no, I don't give up my sources. Believe me, people have tried."