Nero and Dorne were getting ready to head out for scouting. Dorne glanced up from his gear, eyes scanning the room. "There's an extra backpack in the room downstairs. Can you grab it?"
"Sure, why not?" Nero replied, standing up from the chair. He made his way downstairs and found himself facing two doors.
"Hey!" he called, glancing back up the stairs. "Which room? There are two down here."
Dorne, mid-way through checking his gun, didn't even look up. "Oh—left one," he said casually.
"Alright," Nero said and started walking toward the left door.
Suddenly, Dorne froze, his body stiffening. His eyes widened, panic flashing across his face. "Wait—was it the left… or the right?"
"Oh, shit!" Dorne jumped to his feet, bolting for the stairs. "NERO!? IT'S THE RIGHT ROOM! DON'T OPEN THE LEFT ROOM!"
But it was already too late. A loud thud echoed from below as Dorne skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. Nero stood silently in front of the left door, unmoving, as if rooted to the spot.
"Nero?" Dorne's voice was cautious, tense. "You okay?"
Nero didn't answer. He slowly turned his head from side to side, then lowered his gaze. Dorne followed it—and froze.
Nero's left forearm lay on the floor. Severed. Completely detached. Cleanly cut just below the elbow.
Yet Nero didn't scream. He didn't flinch. He simply stared at the stump, his expression calm but distant, as though observing someone else's body.
Dorne rushed forward. "O—okay. This is bad. This is really, really bad. I need to find Anika.Right now—"
But Nero's quiet voice stopped him. "Hey, Dorne… why isn't there any blood?"
Dorne froze mid-step, heart hammering in his chest. He looked down at the floor. Nero was right. Not a single drop anywhere. Not even a smear.
"And it doesn't even hurt," Nero added, voice tinged with disbelief. "How is that possible?"
Dorne approached slowly, careful, uncertain. "What… what do you mean? Your arm is gone. Maybe you're in shock. Let me see it."
Nero lifted the severed limb. Dorne's face drained of color. The inside of the stump was pitch black—like the deep cracks that spiderwebbed across Nero's body. Nothing human about it. No flesh. No bone. No veins.
Nero bent closer, eyes fixed on what remained of his left arm. With deliberate caution, he reached out with his right hand to touch the severed end. Nothing. No warmth. No blood. No texture. Just emptiness.
Slowly, almost instinctively, he inserted his fingers deeper into the severed stump. They kept going, as if the arm had no end. The only sensation was a chill that didn't belong in the real world—biting, unnatural, seeping deep into his very being.
Dorne grabbed Nero's wrist and yanked his hand back. "Nero. Stop. Snap out of it."
Nero looked at him, voice trembling. "Why… why can I still feel my left arm, Dorne?"
Dorne blinked. "What? You… you can feel it?"
Tears welled in Nero's eyes, unbidden. Then, movement on the floor drew both their gazes—the severed arm twitched.
"Nero," Dorne said slowly, disbelief and caution warring in his voice. "Try… try to close your hand. Your left one."
"How? I don't have it!" Nero's voice cracked.
"Just… try." Dorne crouched lower, steadying himself.
Nero focused. And then—eerily—the fingers on the arm lying on the floor curled into a fist. Both of them froze, caught between awe and fear.
Dorne leaned closer, cautiously lifting the arm. It felt impossibly light—unnaturally so. Cold. Empty. No blood, no tissue, just more black cracks along the cut.
"I think…" Dorne muttered, almost to himself, eyes wide. "I think… we can reattach it. We need Anika. And fast."
He handed the arm to Nero. "Hold this. I'll grab some bandages—we can tie it in place for now."
Dorne turned and rushed upstairs.
A few moments later, he returned—bandages in hand—only to freeze mid-step.
Nero was already holding the severed piece close to the stump, watching intently.
And then it happened.
The moment the two parts neared each other, they pulled together on their own—drawn with quiet inevitability. Flesh rewove itself seamlessly, like a wound undoing its own damage. A faint pulse rippled through the air. A low hum followed.
Then—silence.
The arm was whole again.
Only a thin black line circled his forearm where the cut had been, a narrow scar—just another crack among many.
The bandages slipped from Dorne's fingers and hit the floor.
"… Did it just connect like magnets?" he asked slowly. "Can you move it?"
Nero flexed his arm. Rotated it. Made a fist. Opened it again.
Dorne stepped closer and tapped the forearm. "Can you feel anything?"
"Yes," Nero said quietly. "I can feel everything. Just like before."
Dorne tilted his head. "Think it'll come off if we pull?"
Nero raised a brow. "Are you serious?"
"Hey—better safe than sorry."
Nero sighed. "You're not wrong. But still…"
Dorne grabbed his forearm and pulled—hard.
Nothing happened.
"Okay," Dorne said, letting go. "Good news. It's not going anywhere."
He leaned in again, inspecting the reconnect point. "So… it really is normal now?"
Nero stared at his arm, his voice low and shaken. "Who am I? Am I even human? How is any of this possible?"
Dorne straightened, his expression firm. "I don't know. But I do know this—you're a good person."
Nero looked at him. "How can you be sure?"
"Hm?"
Nero's gaze dropped to the floor. "When you found me… I was covered in blood. That could've been the blood of people I killed. I could've been a psycho before I lost my memory."
"Hey." Dorne cut in sharply. "Calm down."
Nero flinched.
Dorne exhaled and softened his tone. "You weren't a bad person. And you aren't one now. If you were, you'd have already shown it. People like that always slip back into old habits—memory or no memory."
Nero didn't reply. He just stared at the floor.
Dorne patted his back. "Come on. We still need to go scouting."
Nero looked up, incredulous. "You're serious? After all that?"
"Dead serious," Dorne said. "If I leave you alone here, you'll spiral. And some fresh air might actually help."
Nero hesitated… then nodded. "Alright."
Dorne opened the right-hand room and grabbed the bag Nero had gone to fetch. Nero took it, then paused.
"By the way," he said slowly, "why the hell was there a guillotine blade in the other room?"
Dorne scratched the back of his head, grinning awkwardly. "Ah… about that. I'll show you."
He opened the left door properly this time.
Inside was a cramped but meticulously organized armory—rows of guns, blades, and gear lining the walls. The floor where the trap had sprung was sealed again, though the outline of the mechanism was still visible.
"This is the town's armory," Dorne said. Then he glanced at the floor. "The blade's just a security system. You know— for intruders."
Nero stared at him, deadpan. "And you forgot which room it was in."
Dorne laughed sheepishly. "Yeah… my bad."
"That thing could've killed someone."
"That's the point," Dorne said, his voice calm and unyielding.
Nero stood there, stunned.
Dorne shut the door and clapped his hands once. "I'll reset the trap later. Let's go."
He stuffed the spare backpack with a few essentials and passed it to Nero. He slung his own pack over his shoulder, and together they stepped out into the trees, heading for the forest.