The crack of the blade sinking into the concrete nearby brings Charlie's head jerking up. He stops mid-stride, the lines of his shoulders taut and fists half on the rise - clearly in no mood to fuck around. That dangerous, half cocked look doesn't exactly diminish much when he recognizes the man coming out of the dark into the clinical, cold fluorescent pools of light of the training room.

He's not a fan of being snuck up on, especially not with knives (doubly so for tattooed Russians). Charlie slowly start to pick the tape from his knuckles, visibly wary.

"Well it's not closed."