The footsteps turn hesitant, slow and soft, like someone picking their path through difficult terrain. Clint can't help but think that's apt, really. In any case, he's staring down into the dark where Tony is, trying in vain to pick out shapes from the murky hallway. When the footsteps stop, Clint's fairly certain this isn't someone about to try and kill him five minutes into this so called game. But that isn't really reassuring.

So he stays silent and statue-like, listening intently to every squeak and scuttle of rodent paws and the absence of footsteps. His silence is rewarded as he'd assumed it would be, and the silence disperses under the heavy weight of those dismissive words.

But that's -- there's no way. Clint freezes, blinking in the dark, but the more Tony rambles on, the more sure he is. His voice hitches, incredulous all the way, even as he turns and takes a couple steps towards where he can hear Tony's hesitant footsteps.

"Stark?"