With as hard as he's trying to concentrate and focus through his internal frustration, Carlisle doesn't even hear Kabal speak to him, the wall still rotting until he's prodded with the pipe. The pipe itself survives, but the edge has the beginnings of rust where it touched him, a clear sign that Kabal was right not to do so with his sword or his bare hands.

"I- I did it." Carlisle seems simultaneously relieved and surprised; again, he hadn't exactly felt the expulsion of energy, as he should have. Is it because his senses are dulled? Or is his command over the necrotic so strong that the exertion is negligible, like a strongman lifting what most would consider a heavy weight?

Either way, the conclusion is uncomfortable. He steps aside to let Kabal past. "Fantastic," he mutters to himself, picking at his sleeve nervously. "Nothing I would like more than thirty percent of stolen goods."