Sulfur. He could place it now, he knew why it was so familiar. And it was the first sense to hit, always, never something he'd relied on until there wasn't much else TO rely on, but it's all up in his sinuses, it's all he's breathing in. He feels a bit like he's asphyxiating but he doesn't dare budge from his spot, not even when he finally does see Crowley, with his hands folded carefully in front of him, the hat wrung into a tight rope. His own gaze follows Crowley, eyes sharp and hooked onto his every move.

He's crass. Purposefully crass. But Yoite's long since learned that responding to bait only worsens the situation. As such, he's painfully unresponsive to Crowley's remarks - a flicker of a brow, a tightening of his jaw, nothing much to betray how uncomfortable he is with the situation.

That voice is one that's not okay, and it sends a bead of cold sweat down his spine, or maybe that's just shower water.

"It's Yoite." A lie, and a flutter of his pulse betrays him, a bat of his lashes. "Someone usually gives their word in the Nabari world," is true, however - only answers when the question is direct, fully glazing over the latter half of it. There's a bit of a shake to his voice that betrays him, but he tightens his shoulders, frowns. "It's not a very good system. So I use collateral." It's only then he moves, and the hat unfurls, painfully wrinkled, but he doesn't seem to care too much about his appearance, dirty gloves and wet hair and all.

Curiously - and warily inviting whatever answer this man might give - he finally asks. "How do you do it?"