[He clicks off the feed, not waiting for a reply. It's only a flight of stairs, but it might as well be thirty with the way his lungs still burn. Somehow he makes it, even if he's forced to stop at the top to work the taste of blood off his tongue.
It's not working.
His first attempt at opening the door only results in a smear of red against the wood, right next to the handle. The second go is more successful and he soon stumbles in, blindly staggering in the direction of the bathroom. He needs to wash. He needs to sit down and wash off and get his head to stop ringing. The crash against the bricks might've landed him with a slight concussion, or at least that's the way it feels with the way his insides are squirming.
His torn shirt is soaked through with blood. Wet, squelchy, still seeping from the bitewound in his shoulder. Hands shaking.]