"It's cool."

None of this is cool. This is galaxies away from cool.

Peter watches as Flynn takes his arm and puts it above the cup, as the blood drips steadily into it.

Drip drip drip drop--

A grim pitter-patter. Something goes slack in Peter's face, something that would look even more terribly disturbed if his eyes hadn't been covered in red.

Again. He'd hurt himself again. This just kept happening.