For the most part, he's ignored footsteps coming near. He'd rather not deal with the guards; in return, he suspects they'd rather not deal with him, either. It's only that these footsteps sound more purposeful. When he hears his name, he cracks one eye open. No one down here has referred to him by name. And though he cannot scent anything, he does recognize that voice.

Not so much the. Form. Is—? Geralt is certain he and Kylo were roughly the same height last they spoke, so this seems. A development. Is he seeing things? Is he just that fucked in the head right now? He peers up at Kylo, considers for a long moment, and decides he's too tired to ask questions. (Good to know the man doesn't smoulder outside of the Horizon.)

He pushes off the bedframe gingerly, fingers slippery with blood. There's some wariness in his gaze, but most of it is curious more than anything.

"I'd have sent a letter," Geralt replies, his voice rougher than even usual, "but the trip was unplanned."