[Harding is very, very quiet and stays very, very quiet well after Daylight finishes his rant — at least for a full five seconds. He takes a deep breath, lets it out on the second syllable of the first word.]

Okay, number one? [He slowly shakes his head, pushing out a half-formed laugh as he adds,] I don't care how worried you are. You don't get to talk to me that way.

[This isn't up for debate, Harding's forcibly calm tone implicitly says. Like Daylight, his own tension is seeping into his words, his posture, his eyes. Unlike Daylight, he's fighting it every step of the way.]

Number two, I don't give a flying fuck who you spoke to and what they said. [The calm wavers. He glares at Daylight, seething.] What makes you think for one second that I don't care?