Something in him shivers at the answer, and Kaivnsky's pretty sure it's not the drug. Shit. He needs a cigarette after the look that goes with the assertion. Something reckless and hungry inside him wants to know what that looks like. What control means to someone like Victor. It's written in the seams of his clothes, in the schooled expression he's been wearing since Kavinsky came over. But is there more? What's deeper? What does it look like when Victor doesn't have control?

He wets his lips and looks away, a grin lingering on his face.

"Shit. Well I can't help you there."