The double may have taken a far more brutal beating, but it's the real Carlisle who looks like death warmed over by the time Glacius reaches him. He's lying in a crumpled heap around one corner of the building, a trail of blood leading all the way from the door to where he collapsed; his phone is nearby, the screen cracked from the impact when it hit the ground, red and black fingerprints all over it from his outstretched hand. As for Carlisle himself, his skin is even more colorless than usual, save for what's covered in his own blood and ink, both of which have obviously been pouring from his mouth and pooling beneath him. Protruding from his back are the handles to the shears, the point of the long blades pushing against the skin of his chest from the inside out.

The clergyman barely stirs as Glacius calls out to him, his chest rattling with every breath, what strength he had having been sapped away from the journey to the street and the wait for his savior to arrive. He's muttering something, but Glacius might not be able to discern what it is he's saying until he leans closer: "Pull it out."