Scar shrugged. Perhaps Frank's worry was born from the fact that Lust certainly didn't look dangerous. She had nearly succeeded at killing Scar on two occasions, though, so he knew better.

"She doesn't want or need my help, if that's what you're getting at." It was humiliating to admit, but the only night he had been legitimately injured had been the night she wasn't there. Scar was a sitting duck, here, with his brother's arm gone. He was the one who needed looking after.

And even though that was true, he refused to allow people to look after him. Openly admitting the need for help, the need for others, sat uneasily in his mind. He would set out alone tonight. He would get something done for himself. He didn't need anyone's help, especially not the help of a homunculus.

Maybe continuing to tell himself that he was okay in solitude would make it true.