Some part of Ringer's mind wants to scream and break things. Trying to deal with the factions is a little reminiscent of her school days and its respective cliques. She frowns at Finnick, pausing a beat before finally lowering her gun. Her hands remain on the weapon in perfect posture, but the barrel points to the ground instead of at the fae.

"The Night Council is worse than the Unseelie," she says offhandedly, as if it's the most obvious fact in the world. After their last chat, she trusts that he'll understand the sentiment for what it is rather than an insult on his brethren again. In a more conscious and thoughtful tone, she continues. "Will this result in more harm to humans?"