"...I see," she says, and her voice is quietly pained. Nyx finishes rolling her sleeves up and starts washing her hands and arms, seemingly lost in thought. It's a good scrub, experienced and professional, familiar with the decidedly non-modern soaps of this place without confusion or question.

And yet she seems so lost in thought...

"...Don't scream," she murmurs. The human guise melts away. When Erin had shapeshifted, or stopped shifting shapes, the gunpowder smoke of her Mantle had hidden it; there are no such luxuries here. The human form that Nyx is wearing evaporates before Max's eyes, leaving behind something not-quite-human, with hair of squirming darkness and a shadow standing at the wrong angle, oddly visible despite the indoor light.

Scars criss-cross her arms, a lifetime of defensive wounds and battles, bright against her too-pale skin.