One second, Matthew was about to get his throat torn out and the next, the thing screeched and suddenly pounced away, leaving deep scratches down his chest that tore across the line of stitching from an old injury already there. One that he couldn't remember getting beyond what he vaguely thought he imagined.

Ow. Jesus Christ. Matthew automatically scooted back, his brain trying to catch up. Where did that guy even come from?

He pressed down on the cuts, feeling the blood coat his fingers, even as he stared at the scene rapidly unfolding before him, bewildered. He was usually good at processing things fast, but none of this was making any logical sense, no matter which way he spun it. His first thought was that he really hated getting stitches (though since when had it happened more than once?) and his second was that the man who'd just shown up out of nowhere was gonna get himself killed and that Matthew should probably do something except he couldn't seem to get moving fast enough.