"Not exactly." It had seemed the natural way to explain it with his heart still pounding, his blood still hot. Now that he's got a clearer view of the situation ... "I was the one to escalate. I tried to question him, but he wouldn't tell me what had happened to Rich, just that he was 'sleeping' somewhere and wouldn't wake up. I can only pray that doesn't mean 'dead'."

He pulls away the handful of bedsheet he's pressed over his injury. The cut itself is maybe four inches long, diagonal across his bicep, and deep enough to bleed freely, but it hasn't bled through the makeshift bandage.

"I tried to restrain him. I was cut in the struggle, and he ran." Dimitri grimaces. "In hindsight, that wasn't the wisest way to handle the situation."