And with that, even the very last vestige of warmth and doubt was gone from his mind, and his expression cooled until it resembled sculpted ice more than anything else. "I don't see any fucking poor children here," he tilted his head and thrusted it forward in an almost mocking way. "all I see is a grown man who has money, and who's money would be much better off in a 'poor person's' pocket." He closed the gap between the two, watching the man intently. He will not let this man get away from him.

"Isn't that what you and your fellow choirboys want? Us poor and impoverished and oh so unlucky and pitiable folk to have money?" As of right now, he was driven more by anger and spite than by anything else. He cannot fucking stand the church.