So the fuck do I, but that doesn't mean I'ma go beat down a door I can't even get into and go and get my ass kicked by some telekinetic closet-wannabe-supervillain that's just looking for something else to get off on.

[That's the real problem. It's not that he doesn't want to. It's that he can't. Not physically, and even if he knew how to throw an emotional gut-punch the way he knows how to throw one for real, he doesn't think he could do that, either. He doubts Zane even gives enough of a shit about him for that.

It dawns on him, suddenly, something he'd told Mira back before he'd known the truth: that whoever the killer was, they were trying to be the new Jerry. Whether or not it's true, it feels the same -- that same feeling of rage crashing up against the wall, useless in a dumb little baseline like him; that same feeling like he's just being toyed with like a mouse to a cat. Worse, maybe, because Zane's reeled him in more than once now. He sucks in a breath.]

Don't play me again, fuckhead. It's not gonna work next time.