Stabbed. Dying. It's certainly a more creative story than his disappearance. But not with details that sound likely to serve a use. Connor tracks the reach—the scar. It looks too old to be the damage she's referring to. Unless she was tended to, then stored?

"Yes." Obvious, and irrelevant. He presses again, tone sharp. Demanding. "Do you remember anything about the tube? How did you get there?"

Connor hadn't remembered. Neither had anyone he'd asked back in the village. But if there was any chance a fresh arrival might retain some scrap of recollection...