"No, no witnesses," he confirms, busying himself with stripping the leaves off the branch closest to him. It's an old, bad habit of his. When he feels the need to fidget, he usually finds something to do with his hands and focuses on what's in them instead of the urge to move around and tug at the edges of his clothing and pick at the chips of paint that were starting to crack and peel from the railing.

He drops the handful of leaves he's collected into the lion's pen, but they don't seem to care, if they even noticed. "You never drank animal blood?"