"Hm." It's a short and thoughtful sound, originating from the back of Clarke's throat as she looks him over, eventually moving to lock gazes; sharp blue eyes meet sharp blue eyes, as if one could parse the most important and telling details about a person by the ways their irises flecked or pupils contracted. Man, wouldn't that be nice and easy?

And hm indeed. Were any of the options really good ones? Please believe she locks the qualifier of present when it comes to whatever danger the man may pose to the masses, but right now doesn't push it.

"Guess I'd prefer doctors —" As close as Clarke gets to humor is at her own expense, that cauterized stab wound to her flank still radiates pain with every heartbeat. Dry sarcasm rolls off her tongue, mask of fierce judgement giving way to a hint of teenage sass. "— but am willing to accept if you're just a musician."