It was a face he had seen, a few times, at the club. They had never spoken, though he'd danced for him a time or two. It had never been more than dancing. Kavinsky knew the sort of face that the man had, though, the curious hardness of distancing oneself from their actions, of needing to have an out from their behavior.

The question was invasive, though it was meant to be casual. Kavinsky tucked his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and shrugged.

"Alright, yes," he said. "You're not with the police, are you? I have work papers, I'm legal for that club, I--"