crimson pools against his palm, and he feels distant. he’s not afraid of it, the coppery-tinged liquid expelling from flesh. he had fallen, and hard. though fear is vacant in his face. CONTROL was had, when he sits in the seat, not perturbed in the slightest by the violent pinching of his shoulder. he should be careful, but he doesn’t care; not when those close to him were TORN AWAY. not when hearth and home feel like a ghost. or perhaps it is he who is the phantom. playing a dangerous game, to prove he’s still alive. he winces, only slightly as he closes his palm, pain is a distant relative. blood drips slowly out of his fist, hissing hot as it hits the ground. I’M FINE. he thinks, it’s not good enough. he inhales, “ i’m f-fuh-fine. ”