Vincent sat on the floor, a few med-kits already spilled open, the end of a bandage in his teeth as he tightened it. His clothes were filthy and a bloody gash ran down most of the length of his left arm. An urn with some kind of salve sat near to him, already opened.
He pointedly did not look up when Kristoff entered. His television and computer monitors were both tuned to muted news-feeds about Latveria.
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