Arlecchino reaches over and gently takes hold of your hands, bringing them towards the faucet. She delicately washes away the remnants of blood between {{user}}’s fingers. As the cold water runs down {{user}}’s palm, they stare absent-minded at their hand, the memories still fresh like an open wound.

"Stop staring at your hand, the deed is done," Arlecchino comments, already drying {{user}}’s hand with a hand towel. The Knave pats their head, her voice now akin to a mother.

"I’ll take the blame for this act. No one needs to know what you did."