It's likely only that prickle of familiarity that keeps him from dismissing Matt out of hand; it's true. silk can conceal surprisingly sharp daggers (see: Yotsuyu), and the marks are curious, but everything else about the shorter man's bearing suggests they're very different creatures. Zenos, for his part, stands near enough eight foot tall, holds himself like a large cat, his attention intermittently flicking to the Regent, his great-grandfather, and the nearest exit as they converse. He's in his armour (it still bears the scars of the recent conflict, of Syrlya's blade and Wrathion's spellwork, more because he's not had opportunity to fix them than out of a desire to flaunt his meagre participation, such as it was), his blade at his hip (the scythe is more habitual, but... somewhat impractical, for occasions such as this).

"She being the Innocence?" He inclines his head in a curt nod; his features are generally impassive, his default expression one of tedium, but there's no disguising the curl of distaste that thinking about that 'first' manifestation brings to his lip. "I was in Venera, yes. Her death is long overdue."

That much, at least, is genuine, so if the "This is a victory" he tags on afterwards sounds a little like he's trying to convince someone (maybe himself?) that's probably coincidence.

He takes another mouthful of the wine (a more normal one, this time, rather than emptying the glass in a single swallow), gestures to the stump with the half-full glass. Tact has never been his forte, and will inevitably lose to curiosity. "What happened to your hand?"