It was frustrating. An assassin, being bedridden? You may as well have amputated his legs off, because that's certainly how being bedridden felt. And certainly how his leg felt; it was unfortunate. Just a stupid little stab wound to the leg, nothing major or anything. Then again, no injury could be major after Kali's Kitten. Gunshot wounds to stabs to cuts, nothing could top that. Which was also unfortunate, for now he couldn't top that injury. Though, frankly, it may be better that he can't, considering the trauma brought after that.

Being wrapped in bandages was almost a permanent factor of his daily wear now. May it be for a stupid thing or something like this, it was always a bandage. And it would need replacing, because the point of a bandage is to stop the damned bleeding. Well, in his mind it is. A more eccentric version of a band-aid, that was all the brown, crimson, and barely white cover was. The painful part would be getting it off, damn tape, and to get the new ones on. Not because he'd feel the pain, exactly, but because legs fall asleep and, more often than not, he'd end up falling trying to walk around. It's silly how the human body works like that.
And inconvenient. Tapping your leg never goes well when one is tied to a chair and possibly facing a painful death.

His hands were already a bit bloodied from trying to peel off the bandage as slowly as possible. Just to loosen it, to make the harsh rip off more bearable. Tanned skin and blood; perhaps a better combination than blonde hair and blood streaks. Both of which are a common look for the sniper. It's almost annoying how good he looks in or with crimson on him in some way. Perhaps the colour of blood is the only look he can agree suits him.
Well, that and when he's on the job. A sniper rifle is truly the best accessory, at appropriate times.

The floor was littered with bandages. All were the faded brown blood turns to after a while, a colour that's stained many shirts, trousers, shoes...basically any article of clothing. Some were just used to hold against a cut, others were for the shoulder wound that just had to be nursed, damnit all. Being bedridden was perhaps a fate worse than Death. Which, considering the amount of times that fate has almost been meet...it wasn't a complete exaggeration. It still was, but one that had experience to back it up.

Two more freshly bloodied bandages joined the floor. The sound of a lighter being lit echoed about. And then silence, until a creaking bed was relieved of weight on it, and a quiet curse followed suit as the sniper limped to the other room for fresh bandages to soon litter the floor with. Smoke trailed behind him like a child on an unwanted shopping trip. Despite the calm, it was unwanted.
Being born to fight and be active yet be unable to for the unforseeable future was perhaps punishment enough for crimes committed.