[He folds his arms, shifting his weight. He isn't sure what he's looking at, when Hector steps away, though it's his answer that has him rolling his eyes more than anything else.]

It's your damned devil. [A beat.] ...Or a pathetic excuse for one.

[He can't remember a time when Hector consulted him on how to proceed on any of his own projects, but he's also wise to Hector's intentions to, as he sees it, weasel his way back into the closest thing to his good graces as he can get. It's like Hector's offering left untouched - none of these efforts equate to an admission of guilt, to an apology. But Isaac also realizes that if he ever heard one, someday, it wouldn't be of much use to either of them because nothing could be changed. The damage is done, and to forgive would mean that he's found some semblance of peace with Hector and with himself, with the hate and anger and fear that still shakes him in the cold, still hours of the night. It's possible Hector doesn't even know where he misstepped, or that he had at all; it's hard to say with the way they can dance around each other for years if they wanted to, smouldering and guarded, not saying what they mean.

Words can have fearsome power. Words can be mirrors. They can take memories and stir fire from the ashes, bringing pain roaring to life. For all his self-loathing, he doesn't want to explain, to talk to Hector about the demons of the past that have gone unconquered and relive his failures, opening himself up to pity or disgust, to any sort of judgment. He does enough to himself, on his own.]

Do not think I cannot see this ruse of yours for what it is. 'tis not my opinion that you want.