Jack would've loved to have whatever this was be a painless rip of the band-aid, too -- but he doesn't like to be cornered and confronted like this, particularly when it'd be easier, in his mind, to have just given him a simple hands off back at the Tower and then completely avoid the whole rest of the messy subject altogether. After the network post he'd expected her to write him off without so much as a glance back, giving him space to do the same.

He rubs a couple fingers over his mustache and goatee, self-consciously scratching at the scruff on his jawline until she looks back up to him. The question prompts a gentle perk of his brow in an otherwise smooth, unaffected expression. He's tempted to say 'nope I'm good' and escape this situation without any more injury to his ego, but there's also things that have been eating away at him.

"Really." His elbows are back on the table, pulling him closer into the space between them. There's a couple ticks of hesitation, because he's not entirely certain, given what he'd come to learn about the Capitol, that it's true that they're free to speak openly. But he presses on anyways. "I'd like to know, honestly, then. How much do you truly believe in -- " His hand is vaguely waving in the air, " -- this madness? The Arena, Snow. Sending us to our deaths, ad infinitum, or until the Capitol tires of it and permanently disposes of us." And then proclaiming it an honor. It'd tasted like a lie when he'd asked those months prior, but Jack wasn't entirely sure until it came from her mouth.