If he could angle himself and steal Keito's weapon, then maybe— but no. His grip is weak and pathetic. If he can't manage to hold his wrist, there's no way he can manage to grab his weapon and wield it. The hand is yanked away so easily, and any semblance of hope fades with it. He knows who this is, somehow, in his chest...

And yet when the helmet is removed, something like relief washes over him. He doesn't understand it.

He does, however, understand that Keito went for his own helmet rather than his weapon, which means that it's not violence that he's aiming for. Why? Is there something to be gained here from keeping him alive? Eichi's breath is shallow and his eyes focused, tensely staring at him, occasionally flicking down to look at his weapon.

"Hasumi..." He breathes it out, shoulders slumping just slightly. He feels close to collapse again, worked up like this. "Keito Hasumi, wasn't it?" As if greetings matter, right now.

"For you to trouble yourself to come down here with me... What do you want?"