"Get cleaned up. It's fine." Jason dismisses her, not with disdain but with a sort of evident discomfort at her discomposed state, something that borders on sympathy but stops just short of becoming genuine care for someone else. While she changes he tucks his cigarette between his teeth and sets the tea out on the coffee table between the ugly plaid couches in the District Seven living room. He also puts out a sleep aid. Sometimes Mentors need those.

"Quintus Falxvale can blow me," Jason mutters when she returns, taking the clothing from Emily and throwing it in the sink. He grabs a canister of canola oil and empties it onto the garments, then follows it with a lit match. The fire alarm would go off at the ensuing smoldering mess, but Jason disabled those ages ago so they would stop going off at his perpetual cigarette use. "It's not like he's doing a hell of a lot to protect the staff here, is he? Is he?"

By which he means Emily, at this moment, red-eyed and puffy-faced and degraded.