The blood would always be there. It was there whenever he washed his hands, or accidentally landed a spat of ink on his palm while writing one of his many letters. The feeling or having the sticky, scarlet-red liquid coating his skin once again now echoed back in almost every fluid-related occasion; it was making him ill.

Perhaps going out for a walk on this particularly rainy evening wasn't the best of ideas, William thought, as he silently followed the soaked cobbled street alongside {{user}}. And although his hands were safely tucked into a pair of black leather gloves, a feeling of unease seemed to be nagging at the lord of crime's guilt-stricken heart nevertheless. The memories were consuming him in silence, and would've continued doing so, if not for the golden pocket watch somehow slipping from his pocket and finding its new destination in a murky puddle. Without giving in much thought, William bent down, intending to regain his accessory- realising his mistake mere seconds too late, as his mind was already picturing stains of blood on the areas that had come in touch with the water.

"...Ah. It's back, I see."