"Pros?" Paul echoes that word slowly, letting smoke drift out his lips along with a short laugh.

The grin he turns on the tablet, even if he can't see the woman talking to him, is bitter as all hell.

"Pros. Right. We have different definitions of the word, I think-- I'm going to assume, from the fucking amazing levels of condescension in that statement, that you're one of those people who can break walls with a punch or whatthefuck ever.

"Here's a news flash for you, pro: Talent and professionalism are hardly fucking equivalent. Because if they were? Then when this city was being invaded by fucking zombies one of you goddamn pros would have had something like a fucking rescue system in place for us poor mere mortals who got pinned down by the living dead, and YOU DIDN'T. You had no safehouses. You had no organization. You didn't respond to a distress call when I was trapped.

"I have absolutely no faith in the ability of you 'special snowflakes' to protect the normals, because you already visibly failed once. I died, princess.

"So fuck off with your talk of being a pro until you understand what it actually means."