Harry nods, his plain, tired face showing a lack of surprise. This wasn't a situation he was unused to-he had helped donors before. Made his marks and been marked.
"...Don't worry about it. As far as I'm concerned, keeping my client alive to be reunited with his brother is part of the job he hired me to do. We can talk about recompense later. Assuming either of us have a later." He says, tapping a slim cigarette from his pocket, and putting it in his mouth.
He won't light it though, having quit smoking years earlier-actually on the urgings of Veronica...but still, whenever he's nervous, he likes to have some to occupy his hands. He looks out at the rain, twitching it up and down.
"So, it's this...ex, of yours right? She gave you that? Tell me everything." He says, nodding toward the scary looking cut on his face. Harry knows it was a blade of some sort, and the clean cut nature of the wound means it was something small and sharp. If he had to guess further, he'd say such a facial wound indicates extremely unhealthy obsession in the attacker toward the victim, a compulsive need to destroy the object which dominates them-but, that was just his armchair psychology.
He sits back in his chair, breathing steadily.
The rain continues to beat on the roof of the shoddy apartment. Without taking his eyes off of Rick, Harry moves a small pot sitting on the ground to catch a drip coming from the ceiling.