Of course she has to be like that. Of fucking course. She won't apologize for the thing she confessed she did, but she went off on him about his past self? He was tired and upset before, but now he's mad again, mutant-hot blood raising up to a boil for the way she has to conclude it like this.

"Fuck you," he bites out, all that change transmuted into his voice, and to the sharpening set of his eyes above. "You don't get to come here, confess a murder, and expect me to just take 'sorry, not sorry' as a valid response. You're double panfucked if you think I will, let alone after you tried to argue into me how I'm supposed to feel bad for things I don't even remember!"

His shoulders have raised in a hunch, and his hands balled into fists at his side are trembling with how mad he is. He spits, "If you want it to be done, fine. I'm out. Don't talk to me."

And he turns on his heel, looking to storm on off if she'll let him.