On the field of snow, Hades glanced down at the bullet wound lodged in his stomach. Instead of pressing against it to stop the bleeding, he pierced the torn flesh around the hole with his thumb, deliberately aggravating it, not allowing the wound to heal as quickly as it usually would.
He then pulled out the small pocket watch from his coat, briefly studying his own reflection upon its surface, trying to decipher whether he looked tattered enough, whether the sight of blood was convincing enough to pass for pain. He doubted it would ever truly show as his constitution rarely allowed him to look wounded, no matter how severe the injury.
"Well, the blood should convince her," he muttered to himself.
His gaze drifted over the other wounds scattered across his body, nothing more than flesh wounds, injuries he could have healed instantly if he wished. Yet he chose not to, restraining himself for the sake of appearances, for the fragile thing humans called sympathy.
