She's fully expecting some speech about her terrible life choices, or how she should never have trusted Lucifer to play fair, or something - not this. She blinks at him a moment, the full weight of the tequila starting to really sink down on her, and then she blinks down at her arm.

"Oh," she says, and reaches out with her good hand to tug it off the table, settle it into her lap, out of the way. She stares numbly at the table, thinking back to the day it happened, Greta's hand, Rush's eyes.

"I was testing the rift's barrier," she says softly. "Just feeling it out. Nothing aggressive. A little bit of hands-on research." She huffs a weak laugh at the extremely unfunny pun. "It pulled me in. Fried the arm. Rush and Greta pulled me out, and Rush had to sever the arm's circuitry. Could have been brain damage. Could have killed me. Now it's dead, totally destroyed."

She looks down, idly tracing the knuckles of her dead hand. She can't feel the sensation at all - it's just like she's touching someone else.

"That's all," she murmurs.