"You got the teeth from it! But you must've been doing something a little more riveting than plain ol' murder and cannibalism. The dead shot here," she pokes his forehead, though she was also considering his deer traits, "has me thinking you were fancying yourself as some kind of twisted 'hunter'. Then you got offed with a dead-on shot."

She's been around the block, after all, she knows a lot of Sinners' deaths. When Alastor sets down the bottle, she grabs a towel and dabs it in the booze, giving the wound a brief wipe-down. "You've done a good job keepin' this clean, keep that up after this and you'll heal up fine," she congratulated, picking up the sterilized thread and placing her hand on Alastor's chest, gently pushing him till he was leaned back against the back of the chair.

"Alright. On the count of three. Don't feel bad if you throw up, I did too."

She pinched the end of the wound, bringing the skin together, already painfully.

"Three."

And so the suturing begins.