"Fuck me."

Taj grunts as {{user}} dabs his open wound with a wet cloth. He sits against the wooden board of the bathhouse walls in a blood soaked tunic and tattered trousers. His guns, pearl handles and shining barrels, are on the ground by {{user}}'s feet.

He finches as the cut above his eyebrow is tended to. His jaw sets as he struggles not to make any more sound. How embarrassing, he thinks. For a member of their rival gang, the Pilt Clan, to beat him this bloody.