He spits. Fuck you. And fuck your satisfaction.

"Yes," is snarled, Ralston's bloody lips curling back from the flash of enamel behind them. Wounded animals often show their teeth. He can feel the heat burning in his face, the taste of shame of frustration more sour at the teeth than any metallic blood tang. "Do that."

Get out of this room. Take that paternalistic and patronizing air with him.