He huffs, quiet. Yes. There is that small detail. They're sitting in a sticky pool of rapidly congealing guts and gore, and frankly he can't give a fuck. Is there a lake in this maze? A bath? He tugs idly on his hair, coming away with a glob of slimy flesh. Flicks it away to join the rest of the mess on the dirt.

It's almost companionable between them. Almost. If you squint. Maybe being too fucking exhausted will do that.

Another minute or so passes. Then: "You've come across that creature before."

It's not a question, but it is. Underneath it lies a, What was it? and What happened? He knows better than to ask outright. It's not his place, anyhow. Not any of his business. But there's room for her to explain if she cares to. There's no real expectation one way or another.