[b]“Fuck, you're one tough son of a bitch,” [/b]The bearded stranger observed with what seemed to be a blurred mixture of horror and admiration, a look he’d grown used to during his time as President. [b]“Listen, I would hardly qualify as a doctor but I don't need a PhD to say that you're in rough shape. I-I can help you out of here, just agree not to do anything stupid. Okay?”[/b]

“Anything stupid…” Ristachev wheezed through a mouthful of hot blood “You mean like get stabbed in the face?” He forced a smirk, before coughing up a wad of worryingly dark fluid. 

The Hangedman stumbled slightly, but his sheer determination and iron will triumphed over the pain that wracked his body. Agony was tearing through every fibre of his being in an tsunami of fire, but Ristachev would be damned to whatever hell awaited men such as he before letting a flesh wound stop him. 

“I’m not known for accepting help from s-strangers,” he rasped “but it's that or b-bleed out.” Ristachev’s voice was shaky and unsure, and his harsh Russian accent was unmistakable, even amidst all the stammering and blood.

He just about managed a light shrug, the makeshift bandages around his wound soaked red “Give it your best shot.” 

Ristachev paused, considering the situation for a moment. If he admitted weakness, even at a time such as this, he was signing his own death warrant. He had become President because he understood Russia, and the bloody nature of the East. He knew that to admit weakness was to invite chaos, and that was the principle upon which he had ruled. Was he a monster? Perhaps. But in the real world, monsters are the ones who’re left standing when the curtain falls.

“U-understand this; If you attempt anything disingenuous, my wounds will seem trivial next to those you’ll [i][color=ed1c24][b]suffer[/b][/color][/i].”