[They shake their head, still not looking up at him.]

You're alive. We're both alive. ...Don't be scared, I'm not going to use it on you.

[They think he's going to be scared anyway, but they unfold enough to pluck the switchblade from their pocket, pop it free. And your hand is a foolish place to get a cut, it makes it hard to grip or make a fist and it keeps re-opening, but they score a line across their palm, put the knife away again as quickly as they can. Hold their open palm out. Not dust, not something brown-black and rotten and inky. A welling stripe of blood, determination-red.

See? Alive.]

It's called Wonderland. It's a different world entirely. There's... consider it... a new game, perhaps?