That’s one-, no, that’s two more. He must have miscounted.
A frustration burns beneath his flesh, thrumming down his spine in renewed exhaustion.
Not that his wounds care. Still two of them bleed, red rivers spilling atop his flesh, content to cascade down from the top of his shoulder and the back of his right flank. Difficult planes to reach, especially when he cannot see the expanse of the injury.
Sure, his flesh would tend itself in little more than a week, would at least be scabbed and starting to mend in a matter of days, but Volke does not have the time to wait.
Nor will he have the energy or consciousness to do anything if much more blood escapes his flesh, no matter how artificial and false.
Just has to keep going, even if the bruises down his chest spasm and protest as he twists, attempting to feel out the farthest edge of wound while sitting in the middle of this bolt hole’s barren floor.