Her apparent adroitness in guises led Daimon to believe that this wasn't the first precarious situation she'd found herself in. She was strange; it wasn't a good or bad thing, he was strange, in an entire city of strange, but it raised more questions. For one, how the hell was taking a cab going to make them any less conspicuous? He'd seen the blood on her clothes, no doubt the driver would too. And that was just one flaw in this plan. Slightly hunched over, Daimon did his best to stand without her support, to little avail. At her question, he smirked. "I have a name." His voice muffled against the scarf, snorting at the absurdity of it, but here he was, trusting her. Son of Satan, Prince of Lies, Hellstorm- "Daimon. And you?" They were well past formality, and it would be rude to call her the 'strange Samaritan'.