The other man - Zimin - possesses a disparaging tone that indicates that, if nothing else, Rush has succeeded in grappling the pressure around his lungs into something that is at least not easily discernible from an outside perspective. Good. Fucking. Excellent. All right.

"Yes," he says, the word only marginally fainter than it would be typically, before it strikes him that this is not precisely an adequate answer, as the previous statement issued was not a question that required a yes or no answer. "Well. Unsettling you was not - not my intention."