Neal takes a step back from Stephen when addressed, expression dazed. He was--he was... where was he? For a second he can see Martin Whitly's face, Malcolm Bright's horror, but it's a fuzzy tangle that feels like a nightmare he's just walked himself out of.

Wouldn't be too strange, given how many times he's fallen asleep on his feet in the last week or so.

Except he's in New York, now. No--Paris? They're standing on the Promenade Plantée, which now somehow seems to run through the center of Times Square. That's not right, he knows it's not right, but he can't pin down why it's wrong, either.

"I..." He checks himself for injuries and finds he's in one of his favorite suits, a tailored Devore in deep blue. "I live here?"

He probably shouldn't sound so uncertain about that.