The eyes aren't right, they glow in ways human eyes aren't meant to, and Rorschach's hackles rise at the wrongness. The man's reaction is more akin to an animal's than a man's, and while Rorschach can't say he wouldn't have a similar response if the positions were switched, it still grates.

Another inhuman conscience hiding behind a mask of flesh. A recent rash of sickness or a plague that has long since settled in? More questions that need answers, and he adds them to the growing list.

The hand on his throat is received with similar, if more visible, distaste. It's too close to the last altercation he got into, the suited, inscrutable man with the iron grip, and he likes the contact this time as much. The fingers are long and strong, extending past where normal fingers should, and despite the fact that they aren't squeezing too hard (yet) he feels confined. One hand releases the shirt collar to latch onto the wrist, pressing into nerve and muscle and sinew and twisting viciously to gain their release, ink twisting across his face in rising agitation. "Asked first."