“I didn’t do this for you,” Torrie’s quick to snap out of habit, like verbal muscle memory. “My brother did it for you, I’m doing this for him.” She was fighting every instinct to stand and gawk at this Hound that managed somehow to scrounge up enough manners to thank and acknowledge the magnitude of whatever those files meant ot her. It put Torrie on the wrong foot, because she expected violence, had only ever expected violence from anyone wearing that damn patch (even if it was nowhere to be found on Teagan).
Torrie lets some of her bristling smooth back down, her shoulders relax, because now she’s more curious than annoyed with the whole damn thing. She’d still rather Teagan snarl at her, like she’s seen so many of those Hounds do before, but acting like a petulant child set to a task they don’t want to do won’t help.
“Still doesn’t matter a hell of a lot to me,” she states, but her tone is less snappish. “Dogs screwing other Dogs over only means they’re not coming after me.”