He doesn't want to admit just how far he ran, just how long he's been running. Trying to distance himself from his grief and his guilt at throwing everything the man had done for him back in his face. Still, when those sharp talons catch at his arm, he starts, hand pulling sharply from the shelves and knocking over another beaker.

That pink liquid seeps into the cracks in his arm, sticks under the plates, adheres to the sensory wires that are supposed to give him a sense of pressure. And the scent of marigolds and cinnamon hits him like a sucker punch, and he stumbles back, away from the ghost he's been running from all these years.

Those shadows move between them, almost pitch black as Jesse finds it hard to breathe. Every eye is on him, that empty casket feels so heavy, can barely hear himself think over the shouting, hadn't even been allowed in Los Angeles National-

"Snap out of it-" He growls to himself, swallowing back remorse. The man before him isn't Reyes. He needs to remember that.

No use apologizing to ghosts.