His eyes looked off into the distance as if looking over a cityscape that no longer existed where they were. "Pockets of quiet are not the same as an escape. Cities still feel stuffed to the brim," he retorted quietly, still searching through the city streets watching people move through their lives and feeling the pulse of all the criminals that had left their imprints on the New York they had visited.
Blue eyes blinked away the inner replay, slipping back to his companion. Instead of answering immediately, he took a sip of his drink, studying Zemo's features. "Abigail's father seemed to have returned from the dead and was trying to lure new girls to kill with her by his side. Since the city was void of its typical population- he would have killed her. It's what he had wanted to do from his very first kill to his last one," he answered half into his glass between drinks.
There was a steadiness in his tone and ease of description. He knew all of these as facts; no doubts or wavering of his pulse that said they were theories. Had it been his time while sick there might have been more certain uncertainty as everything always felt so much more intense before the inflammation of his brain and worse with it- but Hannibal had helped with that. Helped focus his darkness.