To be fair, Vanitas has spent the entirety of the life he remembers with people who knew him from the start, and by this point are wise to his tricks. This is, perhaps, unfair to Ventus, who gives more information than Vanitas expected.

He sits up a little in interest, before experiencing a flash of near-failed video game level frustration when Ventus cuts himself off at the important part. It is mixed with a mildly smug satisfaction he got that much.

Then what was actually said hits - the verb used. Created.

What Vanitas had been told about how he came to be had always been vague. From what he'd been told, and not told, and pieced together, there had been some kind of accident, and a kid had died to make him. Eraqus had taken him in out of the kindness of his heart, yada yada yada. Nobody liked mentioning it, and Vanitas himself wasn't inclined to pry overmuch because thinking about it too hard made his stomach roil with Unversed when he had.

Vanitas props his head on his free hand, elbow on his knee, trying not to show this inner consternation. The way the Unversed are acting, clustering closer like plants towards the sun isn't helping this endeavor. The Hareraiser tries to climb into his lap and he drops his hand enough to push it away a little.

"You tell me, messenger boy," he says. It's really, really apparent right now that someone else is pulling the strings behind this, which is a terrifying thought behind which several other, equally as distressing ones are lining up to have a go.