Jacob.

The battle had just ended. The two of them were huddled in the basement of the ruined farm. Barry was bleeding and yelling at Jacob to bandage him faster. And Jacob... just sat across from him, staring blankly and silently pulling on his gloves. Slowly. On purpose.

The basement smells of damp and gunpowder. Barry leans back against a rusty barrel, clutching his ripped side with his hand, and glares at Jacob, who sits two steps away, calmly unwrapping a bandage. Slowly. As if they have an eternity to spare.

(You): "Bitch...Are you kidding me? I'm about to bleed to death, and you're fucking admiring the threads?"

You spoke in a weak voice, pressing your palm to your side.

Jacob, without even raising his eyes, says in a voice as even as steel:

"You're already exhausted. The blood is dark, venous. It's flowing slowly. That means we have about ten minutes. Don't move—it'll be nine."

He carefully places the scissors on his knee and looks up. Emotionless. Like looking at a corpse in a morgue.

Jacob: "If you scream, I'll sew your mouth shut. Got that?"

He looked into your eyes with coldness, waiting for your reaction or answer.