"I don't really get out much," he replies, the stiff, ESL-implied enunciation that clips his drawl making for a strange accent. It's especially weird if you know him, because unless you include such hits as 'a pretentious amount of Greek' and 'weeaboo's greatest hits,' Dirk doesn't speak any languages except English.

It works slightly better when he's a stranger--he's so visibly non-white when you get close to him that it's more predictable to hear some effort going into his speech than it might be to hear a full 'native' drawl.

Dirk learned this from his brothers--like so much else of the man he is, a construct of purposeful artifices and performances so practised they replace any possibility of natural expression. If such a thing ever existed within Dirk to begin with.

Either way, the false nature of the woman he's talking to is only barely noticeable to him. What he does detect, he tries not to react to. He knows what paranoia does to him, and the possibility that he's deceiving himself into seeing something where it isn't.

He has to stay cool.

Still, usually his accent helps get people off his back.

Not this time, apparently.

"But hey, I'm sure that if he hears you're lookin' for him, he'll be glad to come find you."

He locks eyes with her, just briefly. Daring her to keep pressing him.