"Mitchell, I wasn't born yesterday, Jesus Christ," but he doesn't argue he doesn't even need to be told to clean up the blood because he was already cleaning up the small droplets of blood with the rag from the first aid kit. He holds it in the air for Mitchell to see.

"Taking this with me, you know, evidence," Quentin removes his glasses, setting them to the side gently before cleaning off his face. The gash going from his left eyebrow into the middle of his hairline. There was no more blood gushing from his face, the wound had eventually stopped bleeding on it's own but it looked nasty all the same. With a special kind of roughness, he'd taken care of his bleeding head easily.

"I promise, they won't find traces of me here. Mitch... I wouldn't do that to you," and he means it, putting any of the supplies that had gotten blood on them in that little rag, like a biohazard bag. But he wasn't done fixing himself up just yet. With a more, gentler handling of himself, he removes his jacket, sliding out of the armor and peeling off his shirt to fixate his stare on his arm which was plastered with needles and glass.

"Thank you."