Dylan took a few steps backwards into his apartment, eyes never moving from their task of attempting to assess the damage that had been done to Henri. His explanation made sense, Dylan had seen his share of drug dealers get their asses kicked for double-crossing big movers like Marc, or just by other dealers at their level, it wasn't a very nice world, but the drugs were worth it. For a moment, Dylan hoped that Henri wouldn't be permanently damaged because he needed to keep selling the man's stuff to survive, and then he reasoned that if Henri died from his injuries, he'd just pick up the pieces and keep going, that was how things would go. That decided, Dylan shuffled back to the door and closed it, thankful that none of the blood had dripped on the carpet outside.
"I don't have a couch yet." He said as he looked back to Henri and flinched. So much blood, so much pain, and yet the crusted red looked almost beautiful in contrast to Henri's eyes, eyes he had not yet seen in proper light, only in shadows on street corners. For a moment, the mortal stood, transfixed by the oddly bright color, amazed by how clear they seemed, full of pain but still- he shook his head to clear it. "Shit." He repeated, and pointed to his bed. "Sit on the edge and -fuck- is anything still bleeding? Did you get hit in the back of the head at all?" Without waiting for a reply, he turned and began to rummage through a small pile of clothes that could be jury rigged as bandages in a pinch.