Giles doesn't take offense, but his gaze catches on Karkat, holds for a second too long-- he's not yet met a non-human Tribute, and has to stamp down his reflexive fascination. Honestly shaken by the broadcast, it's dulled his crisp responses, left him slightly staggering. His gaze flickers to the cuff on Karkat's wrist, and for a moment, his expression is caught by something like regret. Concern. A mingling of the two.

"No-- your room is quite safe." He has a suite of his own, one he's already very familiar with; this is not his first year as a mentor, for all that it feels that way, with the Games so radically changed. The arenas constant, Games unceasing-- and now the Capitol bombed, a foreign Tribute acting in defiance. Unprecedented. As with everything, this year. "I've no information on that, I'm afraid. How long this will last."

Because he isn't a Tribute. "Rupert Giles. My Games took place years ago-- I am here as a mentor."