The room was still quiet as Tristain let himself back in, fresh clothes draped over his arm. He dropped them on the back of the chair - and froze. There was something in the air, something that he recognized. Something that should not be there. It was faint, distorted, but growing more potent with each breath he drew.

The tang of copper in the air. Some might have missed it, but Tristain had been trained in a mercenary camp. This smell was something he was painfully familiar with, the scent of blood. In the air. As that realization crystallized in his mind, the man burst into motion. The door to the bathroom as still partially ajar, thankfully - if it had not been, there was every chance Tristain would have broken it down, slamming into it in a rush.

The woman - Aynur - was floating, her hair drifting around her frame. The scene was almost peaceful and serene, and might have been, if it wasn't spoiled by the fact that the water around her was slowly being stained red. Scissors lay on the floor beside the tub, by an outstretched hand, one edge gleaming red. Sharp brown eyes quickly scanned the woman, the urgency of this situation breaking past any modesty he might have had.

For a moment, Tristain’s breath hung up. Her other wrist, floating in the water, was pulsing red out into the water, like a perverted fountain. A pair of scars, a reminder of a dark time, twinged in phantom pain, and for a brief second the mercenary was back in the woods, the scent of blood filling his nose as warmth left his body. The creak of the boards under his feet were replaced with the rustling of tree branches, as red spread on dirt beneath his knees -

With an inarticulate growl, fury, shame, pain mixing indistinguishably on his voice, Tristain tore himself from painful memories. He snatched her arm out of the water, strong fingers curling around her wrist and pinching the wound shut. He felt eyes on him, but ignored them as he shoved his other arm into the water, dragging her out of it. She was light, painfully so.

“It’s ok. It would have been...peaceful.” came her tired voice as she pressed her head into the crook of his neck. He bit back the snarl. He knew where she was, had been there. Had been worse - because he had been dedicated to it, had known exactly what to do. If - not the time for memories.

She was lucky. For whatever reason, she had missed a few things. Only one wrist was cut, and it had been a horizontal cut, not a vertical one. And scissors, even if sharp, were not the best tool for this kind of thing. The problem had been the water, keeping her blood from clotting up, but he didn't know if that had been on purpose or not.

“Peaceful or not, you deserve better than to die in the bathtub of a near total stranger.” Tristain shifted his arms, cradling her against his chest as he headed back into the main room. His pack - it had supplies to bandage wounds, though he'd been expecting to need to use them to fix himself up after fights. They would work though. She would live.