"I-I— I don't— what?" She slumps back against the stool, the legs scraping across the floor beneath, and just stares at Cragen, utterly aghast. Not at the scars, not at the uncanny resemblance to Gall, but at the mere fact that this is not Tom Broadfoot. "Who— who are— what?"

Every muscle in Cragen's body is pulled taut, turning him into a pillar of stunned anger that's nearly shaking in his seat. His fists are clenched, his jaw is twitching, his eyes are wide and wild, and yet he doesn't seem to dare move or speak. This is, as scenes go, relatively contained—Crabb's reaction barely turned any heads, leaving the bartender only other person that's noticed that anything at all has happened.

And so for the moment, Cragen is using every last drop of the very little restraint he possesses as himself to not. Draw. Attention.