Her heart is hammering in her chest, and she's caught on a wire between hot and cold. Karkat's words practically spat in her face, how close he's standing, it's like having her front to a furnace, while the thin material of her nightdress is no protection against the icy chill of the window against her back, as cold there as against her shoulders.

He's different. That's what his anger tells her, the way he forms his words, the predatory snarl across his mouth. Words dry up in her throat, fear in her fingertips; her head is pounding from noise and fatigue and stress and fear. Her mind is still trying to wrap around the fact that this is Karkat before her now (but what if it isn't, what if this is a decoy, or a trap like he said, what if she's having another nightmare, what if—), it's hard to follow the imagery he's trying to paint.

When he reaches into his sylladex, she tenses, but when she sees what he pulls out, when she sees the broken device in his hand, she's moving before her conscious mind registers what's going on. With the speed of a knife's slash, Ruka snatches the collar from his unsuspecting grip, her hand wrapping tight around it, palm against the interior curve.

The place that spent so long pressed against Karkat's neck.