Jean-Paul's eyebrows are permanently etched in an expression of disbelieving surprise.

"Mm. The skepticism is warranted. I'm just surprised that you'd rather endure flower islands and carnivals and shit like that than return to a place where you're more at home." He glances at the broken escalators. He can hear the crowd rioting below.

"I don't believe you actually see these people as viable subjects to your benevolent rule," he adds, tone still dry as the desert. "So there must be something else you give a shit about here."

His eyebrows manage to arch even higher somehow.

"...Quentin, you met someone, non? Is this you not wanting to leave them?"