He nods, his gaze following Wrench's hand. Frustration bubbles at the back of his mind. That's not technically what he asked, but it's an answer. He's holding back, and he can tell--but he's willing to be patient and follow this through.

But then he sees it--the other scarring. Numbers tenses, instinctively reaching forward to grab Wrench's hand to inspect it further.

"The fuck--?!"

He traces his fingers along the scar tissue, staring holes into his hand, as if he might be able to glean more by just looking at it hard enough. It's not recent--it's several years old, at least. An even greater sense of unease washes over him as panic seizes his chest.

He is well aware of the failures of the human body. At the end of the day, a person is just a bag of meat, pulsing with electrical signals that tell it what to do. Crush the right part of the brain, sever the right nerve, and the body falls apart. The lucky ones die. The less fortunate may find themselves slipping into a coma, having weeks, months, years pass by without them being any wiser. The morbid possibility circles his thoughts. After all, the last thing he remembers was being stabbed in the back. But that couldn't be it. He didn't wake up in any hospital--he woke up here.

He whips his head up to look back at Wrench, bewildered. His grip around his partner's hand tightens further.

WHAT?