[ No offense taken. Michael shakes his head at the question and nods as if he agrees with Tate for the rest of it, regardless of whether or not he actually does, but he's being pressured to keep talking and, as before, it's obvious that he's struggling to come up with something to say. He can't talk about his intelligence, or his real age - he can't talk about the things he's done or the places he's been, the things he's seen and the blood he's spilled. He can't talk about how great he is at dissecting animals, he can't talk about the crows and the heat and the storms he's been plagued by. He can't tell Tate that the Dahlia said he gave her the most beautiful smile she'd ever had.

There's just - nothing. Nothing good in him. He's a monster, after all. He swallows hard, scrambling for something. ]

I can... do magic. I can do all kinds of things, like-- like bringing back the dead. I've only tried with little things... mice, cats. Spiders. But I can do it.