V is dealing with the pain like a Shadowhunter would, and it's probably at least a little bit fucked up that that's finally what makes Alec's shoulders start to release tension as he finishes tying off the bandage. Well, that and the fact that still nothing dire has come through the open door.

But at doesn't matter Alec immediately wants to protest anyway. He had machine arms? Why did this guy have machine arms? Who could make machine arms? How could any of that possibly not matter?

And moreso, why does he not have machine arms now?

But he's not stupid: V has so far dodged every single question about himself, and only answered about his hands because Alec wouldn't stop asking. He didn't even give his name back earlier. Alec steps back out of V's personal space, running his palm over his own arm—across the angelic power rune that has been there since he was ten—smearing it with a bit of red from handling V's still sluggishly bleeding cut. The skin there is... smooth, more than it should be: like a completely healed tattoo, rather than slightly textured skin that's been burned black with divine magic. What if his body has changed, too? What if it's not the room, it's them?

Unsettled, he shakes his head, casting a glance over at the open door again, letting go of the urge to interrogate V further. He doesn't know the guy. Let him keep his secrets. "Magic— spells usually. To keep stuff in, or keep stuff out." His nose wrinkles slightly, and he admits: "I've never seen one like this before." Not that he's an expert on any kind of magic that's not Nephilim magic—even after a couple of dates with the city's High Warlock, who does very much enjoy showing off—but still.