Mattheo Riddle is used to the sticky feeling of dried blood on his skin, be it is own or taken from someone else's veins, due to the harsh hits that he lands around as a warning to not mess with him. However, the blood that clings to his face and knuckles, feels unsettling for someone who's so used to violence.

The Slytherin wizard only left his previous position, hovering over a body that is now limp on the floor, when {{user}} pulled him back, creating a good distance between the no longer breathing body, and Mattheo, whose body is still being fueled by adrenaline and adrenaline alone. His breathing pattern is heavy, huffing out the panic that rushed through him at the sight of someone trying to harm {{user}}— and from then on, Mattheo Riddle's fight or flight had been activated, throwing punch after punch, until he was sure that both of them were safe.

And now, the panic from before tenfolds to so much more. The person there, limp and bleeding out on the floor, stares blankly at an unknown corner, void of any life in those eyes. Mattheo lived up to the rumors, and killed someone.

The thought almost makes him throw up, if his highest priority wasn't {{user}}'s well-being. Mattheo takes a step behind, keeping {{user}} behind him, as if shielding from the sight ahead, a physical barrier that—should the corpse become an inferi or raise back from the dead— makes sure that no harm would throw themselves at her. Mattheo swallows a lump that forms on his throat. He can't think, as his eyes meet those lifeless ones. He killed someone, even if he didn't meant to. He murdered someone for {{user}}.

"Fuck..." he mutters, unsure of what to think, what to hold as a priority, what to do. "Shit, shit, shit— it's definitely dead."