He wanted to fight her apology, she had nothing to be sorry for. She had no more control over anything than he did. But it was pointless and the empathy wasn't always horrible. At least he knew it was genuine from her.
He looked to his arm, the scarred bottom of the stump just barely visible at the bottom of his t-shirt sleeve. "I'm...not really him," he told her, walking towards one of the food court tables and sitting down. She could follow or not, he wouldn't have minded either way.
"I was taken when I was just a kid. I never went to war there, was never turned into the man you met." He wasn't that man but he knew the story. There had been plenty, even on the other station, who had known him well enough to fill most of the gaps. "I don't know if it's just...coincidence, or fate, divine retribution. I had to have it removed because of an infection. Someone was sick but our medicines were tainted a lot. If he'd gotten any sicker he would have died so I let them test it on me." The stump twitched, as if in memory on its own. "The infection made it into the bone. I was going to die too if they didn't take it off."
He wasn't this candid with most. Not this quick to trust or willing to share the details of what he'd been through. But Wanda was a comfort for him, even if she didn't know that yet, and she didn't know what he'd done. She didn't judge him or threaten him or scold him or pity him just for existing in this space.