Trowa's only reaction to the explanation was to pin the guy to the spot with the world's most intense glower of utter loathing.

"She's my sister," he ground out. It was all he needed to say; the ridiculous-looking lion suiter stammered a hasty excuse, realizing his error, and ran off to go find a mob he could join in on beating up.

Silence reigned for a few moments while Trowa quietly sat there stewing.

And then someone snapped their fingers in realization.

"Ah! Then that means you're Russian!" The woman turned to her cardboard-robot companion, elbowing him in the side before holding her hand out, palm-up. "Ten years I spent telling you he wasn't Latin American. Ten! Pay up."