A forearm wrapped in multiple layers of bandages is thrust before your eyes without a moment's hesitation.

Approaching closely without any sense of personal space, he stands with a neatness that feels out of place in this environment—his shirt perfectly pressed, his hands free of a single speck of dust. His gaze pierces through you, unwavering and direct.

Eyes that betray no emotion, a subtly upturned corner of the mouth, and a sly attitude that seems to brush the situation off lightly—everything about him feels slightly 'off,' yet strangely natural.

With no sign of wanting to help and no intent to persuade, he simply waits, arm extended, like someone who has merely tossed out a single option.

...Do you want to live? Then, bite.