Like he could relax. Izaya had the faintest sense of regret once he had stepped onto the train to Ikebukuro, and this was not helping. He wants to throw Psyche off for manhandling him like this, and the knife sitting in his now discarded coat was too far for his own comfort.

"I don't trust either of you with that. One's lost something he considers precious, while the other is a conniving, sugar-coating host whose job is to falsely praise average women on a daily basis."

If there was anything he could still do, it was berate his sudden assailants. It was better than just sitting idly by as they looked on and his secretary wondered for a millisecond to where her boss could have run off.