HUNK steps in, giving the room a visual sweep for no other reason than habit. At least it's been cleaned recently.
That word again.
Whore.
It's out of place, and it hangs in the air awkwardly. It feels personal, even if HUNK isn't taken in by it. He doesn't respond with any number of the inflammatory comments that are summoned and kept behind his teeth. At one point, he would have traded banter like this with Nicholai.
Perhaps that's why it feels misplaced. He's using it on the wrong person. They're all only very vague thoughts, more like sensations, pushing at the back of his mind.
He's more preoccupied with the physical. The sudden tightness of the Russian's muscles beneath the bulky clothing; the sweet, bitter smell of blood; the pupils hardening to pinpricks. Ginovaef's breathing quickening and deepening.