This chapter contains the following trigger warnings:

Graphic descriptions of gore (especially of an eye / face)
Exposed bone
Masochism (in thought)
Implied torture or kidnapping

Take note of the verb ‘spilled’, for it is the correct one to describe the scenario. The man’s legs were sprawled behind him. He wore sturdy–albeit dirty–black boots with red trousers, and Machiavelli noticed muddy prints began several meters away from the door. Blood and dirt formed dark patterns along the man’s pant legs in sets of four or five erratic yet parallel marks.  The man still had a trembling fist raised, as if prepared to knock once more. His hands were bone-white, the knuckles pulled taut, with loose coat sleeves draping around his elbows. The missing cufflinks left gaps in the fabric. Worn leather shoulder and elbow patches barely clung to the coat. As Machiavelli stood, frozen, looking down at this stranger, fresh blood gushed from deep scratches along the man’s face. The blood poured down along his neck and onto his clothes. The coat was near-black in color, but with a wet reddish sheen that indicated the fabric was drenched in blood or water. Were his red trousers also once some other color? The scratches on the man’s face gave no easy indication of their origin–they ran straight through his black hair, making it slick and greasy. He turned his face fully upwards towards Machiavelli. A rag, tied tightly behind his ears, covered his mouth and nose and muffled any attempt at speaking. The October air turned bitter from the intense metallic stench and the warmth of the thick, swelling globs of blood that gave an ironic color to the man’s pale skin. A bloody pool–horribly viscous as it mixed with the dirt–formed around the man’s chest. Machiavelli watched as the man’s one remaining eye rolled upwards. The stranger slumped on the ground, spilling the remains of his other eye into the pool of blood.

Machiavelli didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to look away. He knew he was no medical doctor, but there might only be minutes before this man’s death. But why here? Why now? Who was he? Machiavelli forced himself to crouch down. His body shuddered every now and then, alien to his typical refined movements. The smell of blood soaked through his mask and refused to let go. But he pushed on. Machiavelli hooked his hands underneath the man’s armpits, and, with a groan, lifted him up out of the slowly coagulating puddle. Upon touching the man, Machiavelli felt a sting of both relief and dread, as the man’s heart still beated, but he provided virtually no body heat. Machiavelli grunted and hoisted the man over his shoulder. He was thin underneath his clothes, but not easy to carry for Machiavelli’s age. The blood was already staining Machiavelli’s hair and clothing. That was secondary at the moment–he had to force it to be secondary. Machiavelli still wore his gloves and face mask, so perhaps some risk of disease would be lowered. He shook his head. Quit getting hung up on that, he thought, a man is in danger.

“Apologies, I have a visitor! I’ll see to the rinsing shortly! Thank you for your patience!” Machiavelli called towards his office. He heard no response before he turned away.

With heavy, clunky steps, Machiavelli made his way towards the stairs. Each step couldn’t be too slow, or the blood would drip down and become a hazard. He nudged the lightswitch with his elbow. Meanwhile, the stranger heaved and gasped, but made no other movements. As the stairs continued, Machiavelli realized it may have been a good idea for Mr. Limbus to help move the stranger, both to share the load and as a source of an alibi if anything were to go awry. But at the same time… Mr. Limbus likely didn’t have a stomach for the scene, given how nervously he viewed simple dentistry tools. The last thing Machiavelli wanted was to appear downstairs soaked in blood. Hell, he didn’t want a blood trail to lead to obscure parts of his house. He’d have to clean up quickly. Red, hot guilt filled his head as he reached the top of the stairs, almost choking him.

A tarp or some similar water-repellent material would do wonders right now. But all Machiavelli had immediately around was a scrappy throw blanket. He stretched it over an old couch in the hallway before setting the stranger down on it as gently as he could. It wasn’t easy–Machiavelli’s arm ached from the effort of holding a man’s center of gravity upon it. The stranger groaned. He opened his eye as his lungs fought for air. Machiavelli kneeled before him and reached around the stranger’s head, feeling the knotted fabric yield to his touch. The man’s hands shot up towards his mouth so quickly that Machiavelli jumped back. He watched the stranger turn away to remove his gag, covering his mouth and nose lightly with his hands. His breathing steadied, though the blood still flowed freely, now onto his fingers. The stranger’s eye–laced with eyebags, pupil constricted to a pinpoint–bore down upon Machiavelli. His disheveled appearance in combination with the sharp glare almost made him resemble a run-over stray cat. The doctor crouched beside the couch a meter or so away. 

“Hey,” He said after a moment, “Hi. My name is Lysander Machiavelli. I am a dentist. I am not going to hurt you. Okay?”

The stranger didn’t verbally respond. He tried to press himself against the couch, staining the blanket. With his body no longer against the ground, Machiavelli noticed tears in the knees of the man’s trousers, and similarly shredded fabric reaching upwards from the thighs to the stomach. The scratches half-visible among the scraps didn’t seem to bleed as heavily as those on the face, to Machiavelli’s momentary relief. He stood up from his crouched position.

“I’m going to get some antibiotics and bandages,” He told the man, “Please stay put. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The man winced suddenly before he spat out a short sentence: “Don’t… call anyone.”

Machiavelli blinked. The man’s sudden lividity woke the doctor up somehow. Had he been thinking of the man as a corpse so soon? Regardless, Machiavelli hadn’t planned on calling an ambulance until he at least stabilized the man. “Why not?”

“Don’t.” The stranger wiped his mouth before returning his hand to its guarding location. A spattering of vivid red blood now stained his hand. His eye drooped, and the previous state of inaction and unawareness came back over him. He rested his head on the armrest of the couch with a strained sigh. His hand still covered his nose and mouth.

“Right. I won’t.” Machiavelli was unsure if his words were lies. 

The doctor turned away and half-ran towards the bathroom, where a more casual medicine cabinet hid behind his mirror. The room felt more stagnant than usual, lit only by a dying yellow light above the mirror. All the details of the room fell to the wayside as Machiavelli opened the cabinet, swinging his reflection away. Thin fingers sifted through the bottles of pills, sunscreen, and ointment. After a moment, Machiavelli plucked out some painkillers, a container of antibiotic ointment, and a bundle of gauze bandages. He wet a rag under the faucet and rushed back to the couch.

The stranger had slumped forward slightly. His head stuck to the blanket, already growing crusty with darkening blood. Machiavelli placed a hand on the man’s neck–his breathing and heartbeat pulsed through the doctor’s fingers, though even in that touch he knew they were slowing down. Machiavelli took a seat on the floor.

“I’m back,” he said, “I’m going to clean your face first, okay? It may sting a little, but it will be better than getting an infection.”

The man stirred, staring at Machiavelli for a moment through a half-lidded eye. He raised his hand slightly from his mouth, laying his fingers along the middle of his face. He kept his lips tightly closed in a scowl. Smeared rivulets of blood built upon themselves, sunk into creases of the man’s skin, and created a crude mockery of what warmth his skin might have held before the injuries. His eye remained at that pinpoint constriction, and even moving his eyebrows in anger seemed to take energy from him.

“I don’t like this any more than you do,” Machiavelli grunted.