Ah. One of those people. The "don't think, act" folks who generally got people like Evan, who liked to assess situations before jumping in and making potentially life-changing or life-ending choices (call him crazy) killed. Wasn't that fantastic.
Evan shrugged nonchalantly as he put his foot on the runner's chest and dug his survival knife out of its collarbone. There it was, that sickening sound again. Ignoring the lurch it still caused in his gut, he started talking, not even bothering to turn his head and look at who he was talking to. "I do plenty of thinking, and I'm pretty alive," he mumbled, taking a rag from his jeans pocket and wiping the survival knife clean before putting it back in his utility belt. It may have been the end of the world, but damned if he was going to stick a gore-dripped knife into a cloth holster. "Tactics work just as well as instinct."
When the other man gave a semi-subtle thank you, Evan barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, I suppose you should," he responded, shifting the supply pack on his shoulder and using the same cloth to wipe his kukri before putting it into his utility belt. "And I suppose I should respond by telling you that it's my job."
Most people meant, "it's my job, it's okay," but Evan, on the other hand, meant "it's my job, so you damn well better be grateful because I have no damn choice." He was sure it came through in the way he phrased it.
The man continued talking, and Evan was surprised. Most people couldn't handle two seconds of his attitude. But, ah, there was the motive. The guy needed an escort. "Yeah," he said quickly, "we're about half a mile from the Grand Central safehouse. C'mon, I'll take you," he finished, and without another word, turned in the direction they needed to go.