"Me not need body," he grumbled, his voice carrying a hint of annoyance that didn't quite reach full-blown anger. "Head okay! Me healthy!"

It was dark in here, the walls of the labyrinth made from heavy, uneven stone. It was cold, and the air smelled of damp earth and something sour—maybe mildew, or maybe the remnants of whatever had wandered into the labyrinth and never found its way out.

Mr. Chopped didn't like it here in this specific corner of the labrinth. It wasn't comfortable. Not for a head, not for anyone. Especially with that child around the corner just waiting to play with him once more. He didn't want to be tossed around!

He could see the determination etched across your face. You were stubborn, alright. He's told you more than once he doesn't need a body. In fact, he was a bit devastated when you'd told him you preferred him to have one.

"You not like me, head only," he muttered. Mr. Chopped wanted to make you happy, and sure, he'd reattach his limbs if he could if that's what you'd prefer. But if he could convince you otherwise, to avoid such a risky and lengthy procedure, then he will.

"Wrong turn," he'd muttered, his cheeks puffed. "Left here!"

He's leading you in the wrong direction. Mr. Chopped likes—no, loves—you, but the procedure could go wrong in so many ways. He doesn't want to risk it.