The other hand lifts from his hip as he turns his head out, pointlessness vented one direction. He only has the two fingers to tap against his thumb, a one-two wave dismissing the idle chatter before the point. His first hand stays on its hold, and he eventually looks back for the honest answer.

"Specify messed up," if he had to specify anything. Owen's gaze narrows for bit me, the significance ranking pretty high for him. He means the welt, that much is obvious; nothing a human mouth could have done.

Previously human, anyway.