Newt's eyes drop to the floor almost immediately at the threat, and he makes a noise in his throat that sounds like annoyance. His fingers clench at his side, itching to help her somehow, offer comfort. Newt's never been in such a situation and he feels awkwardly placed.

"I can't really do much about seein' it," he mutters, attention forcibly on his hands as he tries to wipe the dirt off on his trousers. Everything in him is itching to fight, to help, to do something for her even if he doesn't know her. Even if she seems as friendly as one of the Cranks that tried to bite his face off.

He doesn't have a weapon on him, and it makes him uneasy, more than her threat.