With nothing to indicate that this is supposed to be just the implication of pain and not an actual injury, Dustin's brain accepts it at face value - right up until Quintet tells him otherwise. He doesn't even want to believe her. Surely this kind of pain can't all be in his head? Scowling at the cat behind a grimace, Dustin drags his hand away from his leg to check his palm, fully expecting to find it covered in blood.

It isn't, of course. Obviously. What made him think it would be? Like a lightswitch flipped in his brain, the pain vanishes, along with all arguments to support it existing. Dustin blinks the last few tears from his eyes, looking absolutely baffled as he continues to stare at his hand.

"...What?" he repeats. Abruptly he sits up and tests moving his leg, scraping his foot along the floor. It's fine. "How...?"

Realization hits, and along with it inevitable anger, because clearly this whole experience didn't make Dustin learn his lesson. "--You fucked with my head!" he snaps, befuddlement quickly giving way to righteous indignation. "The fuck was that for?!"