[Firo snorts, as if the idea of a gangster being interested in money and treasure is completely preposterous.]

Come on, don't say stupid stuff.

[He's in front of the far shelf, turning a box around in his hands for any sort of markings before he opens it. There are a few others like it on the shelves.]

"And" some sorta box, I guess. Maybe it's a first aid kit.

[Though not like any he's ever seen at home. There are unlabeled containers that could hold medicine or poison, for all he can tell. Firo's drawn to the pliers and plucks a pair out of the box, holding them aloft and clicking them together.]

'Least this kinda thing stays the same.