Jack finds his gaze pulled back down and behind him, back to Ryan. Back to the guy who's apparently his father. Not that it matters, it's not like they ever did... father-son things, or anything. It's not like he even thought anything of Jack, he called him less than human.

One thing he will admit to, though: looking at the broken club is bringing back awful memories of moving and not being able to stop himself, aware for once of the fact that he wasn't in control of himself at all. He tenses, scowls at the floor, looks up at Sinclair for a moment.

"I don't," he says.