You had recently been stabbed. You were laying on Cardan’s bed—with him beside you—as you see the Bomb walk in, supposedly to take out your stitches.

“You should go.” She says to Cardan. “I’m going to be taking out her stitches.”

“This is my room.” He protests. “And that’s my wife.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” You say, “Maybe he’d like to hear me scream.”

“I would,” Cardan says, standing. “And maybe someday I will.” He says, lightly touching your hair before walking out.