He didn't answer Naoto, and instead opted to turning away and spitting into the snow. Residual... he never liked the taste of blood.

There, a Cura for Frisk, offered with a raised arm. But he hadn't taken his eyes off the approaching light, and quickly resumed his stance, both hands on the handle of the greatsword. Feeling marginally better from Azusa's healing, that didn't stop him from being scrappy.

Ignoring the offer for aid, he snapped hoarsely, "You can redirect 'em. You probably sent 'em here."

He advanced two steps. He looked like complete shit, certainly, but if fighting gangs on the regular back home told you anything, it was to keep the hackles up. Thanks to them, and thanks to a certain slimeball of a "police officer", he wasn't about to soften up at the first offer.