Jazz watches Sal run away, Mitch being a reluctant part of this escape.
Some part of him wants to follow, to squish the genderless killer under his feet and paint the walls with Sal's brain matter. His aim would be perfect, a nice little smoking hole right in the middle of that annoying wanna-be Ripper rip-off, but...
He doesn't follow them. Instead his whole body whines in a sound of anger. His eyes, normally a sparkling blue, gleam in the bloodiest crimson for a short moment. Nobody, and that means absolutely nobody, is allowed to touch what is considered third!
His mind is already considering elaborate forms of torture.
He looks from Midvalley to the now empty hall and back again. Then he kneels down to pick his friend up.
"Come on," he says in a soft voice. "I'll give you a nice massage to make the pain go away."
Revenge, he reminds himself, is a dish that is best served cold as ice. And the time spent in waiting for such a change is well spend indeed.