He doggedly kept running, sending his own tendrils-- lent strength born of panic, anger-- to cut the ones that were attaching to his ankles. They snapped and he kept running towards the edge of the building, angling to where he knew the old, moth-eaten mattress he'd hauled out earlier while refurbishing his... place.

He went hurtling over the edge and straight down onto the mattress, sparing him any broken bones or worse.

"Why is it my fault?!"

Sounding daresay hurt, but still- angry, overwhelmingly.