K has never had cause to consider with any kind of weight what death must be like - what it could be like. He was never a living thing back home, never had a soul to go on when he didn't. He'd either be destroyed beyond repair and that would be that, or he would be patched, salvaged, repaired and sent back out into the world as the next version of himself.

But others around him have, and he knows the various and sundry mourning rituals are as wide and varied as the belief systems they develop from; he knows that it is, more than anything, down to the individual.

So he nods to agree that he should do that, should light a candle, should honor this ghost of his dead. That he should speak to Rosita, to Jesus; K will need to check in with the latter as well.

But here and now, he steps in front of Vrenille and offers him his hand, palm up, fingers steady. "How can I help?"