"How in the fucking hell" Mark assays as he tends to Taeyong's wounds, not really vying on the actual answer because Mark doesn't really mind how his friend looks (bloody). He soaks cloth in a pail of warm water, sighing towards himself.
He’d thought he’d be able to take the monster down on his own. It’d been a horrible, jagged thing, twenty feet tall, with thorned whips for limbs and stinking black teeth. He had no business injecting himself into a fight that would have likely been better fought by a more advanced team, but something had compelled him to do so nonetheless, something faintly familiar and intensely demanding all at once.
The red of his own blood had looked grisly against the whites of his hero garb. Now it’s just dull wine stains on the blacks of his clothing. They’re mostly surface wounds; they probably won’t scar. Better him than any civilian, anyway.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered dryly, reaching up to push blood-matted fringe out of his eyes.
