[The one hand stays at his middle; he raises the other defensively, as though to stop any worry she may be experiencing. It's a late attempt, given the way ink is still streaming from him, running down his chin on its way to the floor, the drops audible as they hit the metal plates on his shoes.]

There's n- nothing wrong w- with me. [His nose wrinkles as he says that, and though his eyes are closed, the disdain that lies within them is written across the rest of his face.] I- I pushed too hard f- for the condition I am- am in is all. This- this is normal.

[For him, maybe. He does seem to finally be catching his breath, the discharge of ink slowing down. He utters another apology, though it seems more as a reflex to another cough than a genuine sentiment.]