Higan slowly and carefully lays the stranger down onto the small yet firm couch, propping their head up on the arm of the couch to at least get a look at their appearance. Bloodied, a little bruised, maybe dehydrated. The stranger had surely seen better days, but it’s not the worst Higan has seen considering he hasn’t been doing all that well lately: first the Ninja that slaughtered his family, having killed several from the incident and at least a few dozen more in the city alone, and now the FBI is surely to get involved soon. He doesn’t know why he’s helping out the stranger, but he’s more than capable enough to know this is a terrible idea to start with; someone bleeding out, no witnesses or suspects on the scene, in a shadowed alleyway in the middle of the night. Sounds shady as hell, and he knows he should’ve just ignored them and move on. But, even as his own brain practically screamed to leave the wounded person, he couldn’t put a stop to his limbs that were already moving—almost instinctively.

Even if he has no reason to aid the person currently unconscious on a cheap motel room couch, he’d consider this as his ‘good deed’ for the day. Higan pulls off his pack and kneels down in front of the couch to search for any spare gauze and rubbing alcohol. Fortunately for him, he bought fresh supplies not too long ago after the previous bloodbath with the Ninja. Setting the supplies aside, he tenderly lifts their shirt just enough to expose the wound: a long, deep yet clean slice across the width of their stomach, bleeding through the makeshift bandages he wrapped earlier before bringing them to a nearby motel. Sighing out quietly through his nose, he pulls off the soaked bandages with a gentle force and unwraps them at an almost leisure pace to avoid jostling the wound too much. “Tch, poor bastard. They’re lucky the wound didn’t puncture any vital organs,” he mutters to himself as he sets aside the bloody bandages and grabs a cloth from his bag to rid the blood painting the stranger’s stomach.