Ignorance was a better excuse than most. Under other circumstances, it might even have deflected Connor's vitriol. At present? The human's mistakes had already all but vanished from his concerns.

At least in comparison to the rippling, impossible pain coming from his injury.

Connor's not a deviant. He's not, and he stands rigidly, perfectly still as the liquid flesh bubbles slowly back in place. He wouldn't want to give the wrong impression.

"No."

Cosmetic damage would self-repair, yes. But not so quickly—not like this. (Why is she asking?) It takes an embarrassingly long time for Connor to register the slow regrowth of flesh across the human's cheek, but when he does, his voice sharpens—like a lifeline snapping tight.

"You're saying..."