Huffing a shaky laugh at the suggestion that there were no hierarchies in this room, he looked down at the ground, drumming his fingers on the door. Making no move to get in the chair, he had to bite back the impulse to point out that one person in this room had an internal shock collar while the other probably had a trigger for it.

Instead he nodes passively.

"Yeah...Well, last time I had to see a counselor he tried to turn me into a Stepford Student. Strapped me to a chair" he gestures to the fluffy pink nightmare, as if that was the offending chair comeback to haunt him, "and attempted to stab a neural implant into the base of my skull. So...for that reason, I think sitting in the chair would really harsh my vibes in this particular environment." Despite his morbidly humorous tone and attempt to mime being stabbed in the back of his neck, it's not a joke, and the anxiety behind the humor is sincere.

It's not exactly surprising that she dodged his question. But it sure isn't comforting.

Shrugging uncomfortably, another nervous laugh gets past him before he can swallow it.

"I-I don't know. Dad like? Who really knows their father, right? Men of action and few words."