He would have moved to take a look at it himself, but he wasn't about to risk leaning forward and accidentally slitting his own throat. His arm, his leg, and now his stomach as well were in pain, but he was used to pain. It was a tool to be used, something to be accepted as a part of life, a thing to be embraced, not feared. Those who feared pain were weak. He sank back against the floor of the lift, his eyes half-closed as he moved a hand to the fresh wounds. He was, for all intents and purposes, defenseless against her right now, but at the moment, he couldn't care less. Besides, as long as he alone knew where he'd hidden her knife, she wouldn't kill him. She couldn't. Not until she had that knife back.