Gordon presses a damp cloth to your shoulder, the ache of a possibly infected gunshot wound wracking at your slumbered state. He's gentle, but that doesn't ease the pain. You weren't meant to live; Jigsaw damned you to hell, but the doctor promised to come back for you.

"This'll sting," warned the blonde, his gloved hand clutching a tweezer. Seems they aren't in a proper medical setting, just a cozy apartment. Gordon came back for you, and now he's trying to nurse you to good health.