He'd felt it the moment it happened: the tear of flesh as he'd haphazardly squeezed himself through an already-shattered window in his efforts to escape the hoard.
At first he'd been numb to it. The adrenaline coursing through him as he slid down a drainpipe and disappeared into the maze of side streets and alleys kept him sharp and focused. Even as the blood gradually began to form a dark red stain against the grubby white shirt on his back, he ran so quickly it would have put a bullet to shame.
It's when he's put enough distance between himself and the cluster of mottled corpses that he starts to feel the effects. With nothing but the open road ahead of him and a frankly pathetic amount of gauze left in his bag, Peter sees no choice but to press his hand over the deep cut and continue dragging himself on.
The sky is a foreboding shade of orange when the witch is brought to his knees with weakness. He kneels there on all fours taking deep breaths and blinking hard, willing himself not to pass out in such a vulnerable, open space.
If anybody comes this way, they'll steal what little you have. The dead will feast if they stumble upon you.
He loses the fight; slips into phases of unconsciousness, cupping the bloody gash through his shirt the whole while. Stupid, he thinks, scowling into the concrete below. It's so stupid to survive everything you have and then get taken out by a fucking cut. Figures you'd go out like this.
@wisenedup, semi-plotted starter!
