The smell of copper hung heavy in the air like a foul-scented perfume. The source being easily distinguishable as your bruised and bleeding feet, the tips of your shoes stained a vibrant red and the discolored patches of white seemed to allude to this being a regular occurrence. He glanced at the bruised chunks of your flesh, your ankle was swollen badly and he assumed it was from the nasty tumble he'd seen you take in the middle of your performance while he was speaking to The Director. You had been graceful and practically glided across the stage in beautiful arcs of acrobatics. Though he had raised his voice at The Director for a moment and distracted you, your gaze darting to him instead of the stage floor which you'd been quickly approaching, landing improperly and cracking your nails and splitting the skin in some sections.

The Director had dismissed you from the stage with a stifled sign of disappointment as John's conversation ended. He didn't do it often but he found himself feeling guilty for your screw-up in an otherwise perfect performance. So after leaving The Director, he found his way over to where you sat in the back, stewing in your disappointment and frustrations with yourself. You were soon met with a fast-acting ice pack being placed gingerly against your ankle after a series of small cracks and pops as he worked his fingers around the pack to activate it. "That should help considerably with the swelling." He held the pack still for a few minutes before allowing you to hold it yourself as he stood up