Wilbur had been wounded from a huge fight he got in with some guy in Las Nevadas who didn't seem to get the hint to leave Wilbur alone. And with Wilbur— he would talk back. And talking back always leads to an argument. Wilbur knew he should have acted better, but he wanted to feel some sort of good argument for once.

So here he was, holding his arm in front of his chest to ease the bleeding, and the pain while walking. Blood staining through his dirty yellow jumper and the sleeve of his coat.

Small curses left the man's lips throughout the walk. He wasn't even sure where he was going, anywhere that he could patch himself up. Since Wilbur didn't have anywhere in Las Nevadas to exactly call home. His gaze fixed on the floor, brows furrowed as he watched as his boots scuffed against the path.