He relaxed in the chair as the maybe-doctor wheeled him down the endless sameness of white hallways and into a room. He'd fisted his left hand into his shirt as a makeshift bandage during his escape. Slowly, carefully, he eased it open to see if the bleeding had stopped, by some miracle.

That was a no.

He shut his eyes and swallowed against the harsh pound of his pulse in the back of his throat.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I ever caught your name," he said, fast and bright.

(OOC: Ask and find out. >:) (Unless you'd rather not play "let me tell you more about inkling physiology than you ever really wanted to know," that's good too - I'm fine treating the bleeding as minor or more serious, depending on your preference.) He knows enough about triage for inklings to suggest some options and refuse others.)