Pick-up: Daniel W/Lin A
[The lobby and corridor are still bloody from whatever the fuck happened with the Murphys and Alexanders, and the Cat's door is especially hard hit, with red-brown splashing up the length of the old wood and crusting on the knob. None of it is Lin's, but the boy doesn't look much better. With his left arm curled to his chest, wrapped tightly and slung in his now-ruined cardigan, the blood leeching outward in the fabric, he lurches to his feet and out of the shadows. He uses the wall for support. He's wan, but he tries a smile on the panicked Daniel. In calm German:] I'm here, Daniel. [Then in English:] I told you, I'm okay. 'Tis but a scratch. A flesh wound.
[In truth, it's much worse than that, but it's certainly no stab wound to the gut, so that's something. His arm, held away from sight, was raked open with vigor and razor-sharp nails. The four tracking wounds that cut across blue veins are clean, long but gaping. They go from wrist to elbow. Thankfully, the bleeding has slowed and the pain has dulled, in part, to an ache.] We gotta get Sam.