"Seriously?" Dylan mutters, less surprised that Jack went for the cards, and more -- well, there's a sense of resigned amusement to his tone, to the cadence of his thoughts. Do you really hate him so much as to give him a dozen cardboard paper cuts, Jack? Does he really hate himself that much as to come at him, knowing what's coming?

He must. He ran into the fray in New Orleans, let all the people Merritt had hypnotized dogpile him, after all. And so he stalks towards Jack, now, too, hands coming up to at least keep the cards away from his face. Come at him, indeed.