John flinches. Immediately his shoulders draw in, and he twists half-upright to glare through the darkness. He tugs his stupid yellow cowl down to hide at least the edges of the brand.

"The sign? Why the fuck would I have had this?" He calls it a sign, not a sigil, by some slip of old instinct. His voice rumbles low. "No. I was merely unlucky. As, it seems, were you."