A severed palm lay there, separated from its body.
It was more terrifying to behold than a complete corpse. It was not drenched in blood, but pale with the pallor of death. Cold and gruesome. The dirt embedded in the fingernails contrasted sharply with the white, dead skin. It was curled, slightly bloated, yet strangely reminiscent of a claw—vicious and grotesque.
I recognized it at once: it was my hand.
Chapter 31