It doesn't singe. It turns red hot, then white hot under his glare, and then it's just a smoldering pile of blackish metal. It doesn't singe the carpet, however. That would be impolite.

"Learned that one from an old friend," he says. His fingers are trembling a little with effort. Recently, it's the effort of keeping it all in.

"You're very good at this," he says, between deep breaths. "No hysterics. No lies. Wonder why."