Feitan smelled blood before it dripped onto their porch. Lines appeared between furrowed brows as he wrenched aside heavy curtains to peer outside. What he recognized instantly drew him downstairs with new questions swarming his mind.
Night air crept into their living space alongside Machi’s bloodied scent. Whatever. “Get in.” Even his roommate, who was missing at the moment, could figure out what had occurred; with those injuries, she couldn’t sew herself back together without risking near fatal blood loss.
He soon opted for carrying Machi to the basement, unwilling to watch her stagger around like a dying drunk. She required immediate surgery for her abdomen, along with blood transfusions, and a rather painful repositioning procedure to right her arm.
“This is the last of my strong anesthetic.” A metal syringe pierced smooth skin with little warning. “Hope your stupid tolerance doesn’t make using it a waste.” Her organs were already out in the open. What was the point? Perhaps he felt…guilty. Or another irrelevant emotion. “So.” He spoke up amid preparing surgical tools and slipping on gloves. “Who managed to cut a vicious bitch like you?”
He was home, the subtle heat of his nen growing as she tread closer. That was good... probably, a darker part of her mind whispered, and she blinked stubbornly. No, it was good. He could help. He was one of the few others with anatomical skills, and the closest. She wouldn’t have to threaten some naive surgeon this way.
She didn’t even have the time to will herself to raise her hand before a piercing bright light is shone from his dwelling, and she almost staggers back, snapping her eyes shut.
She laughed, a small, bitter sound at his words. He always was one to comment on the obvious. “No kidding.”
He lets her in, and so in she does stumble. She clicks her teeth at herself, knowing her weakness is a result of the blood she has lost already, and unfortunately not something she can control. “You open for business?” She questioned, already heading towards his basement, where she knew he kept his supplies. But her walk is weak, and her vision is blurring. She takes too long to move, and Feitan scooped her into his arms. She’s too weak to protest physically, so instead she does it verbally. “You don’t need to carry me,” she insisted. “I can walk.”
But he ignored her, and she is lain on his cold table when they reach the bottom. His work room appeared empty, which was lucky for her. She hated being in this state in front of him. It wasn’t rational, but she kept waiting for the moment he decided to make good on his words. He couldn’t be called her killer if she died of something like blood loss, could he?
Well, he’d find out if he moved slower.
She kept her eyes closed, unwilling to look into his eyes, but also to avoid the lighting in his room. It would pierce through her sight and leave her head aching if she let it.
Why was he wasting his anaesthetic on her, she wondered. He knew of her ability to ignore pain, to ignore injury and continue fighting. It was what made her valuable, it was what she’d trained so hard to attain. What was the point?
“No-one you need to concern yourself with,” she answered thickly. Her tongue felt heavy and awkward to use.
