[Trust him, Add, knowing you’re watching and scrutinizing his every move isn’t making him feel much better. He’s near-snapping the pen as-is with how tightly he’s gripping it, and as Add prattles off the first sudoku line, Wolfwood very nearly picks up the tile and throws it at the bars in the direction of the camera watching him.

He manages to deep breath his way away from that (therapy is working), but only just. His fingers are white-knuckled as he writes the numbers down.]

This is fucking stupid. [He grumbles, the pen scratching audibly as he works.] If what you want is for me too admit you’re smarter than me, or whatever, and just let me out of this god damn cell, that would save us both a lot of headache. Would that make you feel better?