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One.
The sliver of wood slides through his skin, burrows into his palm. He doesn't notice it until Choi Myung Hee is properly threatened and robbed of her men, and even then he ignores it. It throbs, more an annoyance than anything else, but she notices his quiet hiss when he bumps his palm against the edge of his desk, and she puts her pen down, pushes herself off her chair, marches over, and demands, "Show me."
"It's nothing."
Her hand is outstretched in front of him, palm up, fingers wiggling in expectation.
Vincenzo gives in; gives Cha Young his hand.
Two.
They're occupational hazards, papercuts, but still a complete bitch. She's convinced paper is the devil; in an ideal world, all documents should be digital.
Alas, Cha Young is a lawyer, all too aware of the importance of hardcopies, so here she is: squeezing the pad of her index finger until blood blooms crimson, then placing the finger into her mouth because she's too lazy to get the first aid kit.
But he's there, first aid kit in tow. "You'll get it infected," he says.
Vincenzo's being ridiculous; she rolls her eyes, but lets him place the bandage around her finger.
Three.
There's someone else's blood under his fingernails, too many people's blood on his hands. His mother lies still on the gurney. He cannot touch her with these hands.
His partner takes his hands, unflinching; leads him to a sink. Cold skin, colder water. It is winter.
"I learned this when I got my first period." She smiles at him; it's a trembling thing. "Ice water and detergent, so the blood won't stain."
Too late, he doesn't tell her.
"Oh," she breathes. "Your knuckles."
Scraped, almost skinned, numb.
She's quiet, then, "We'll deal with it later. Let's clean your nails, now."
Four.
The orderly takes the IV line out, sticks a bandage on the needle mark. She supposes it's a wound, too.
Her shoulder doesn't hurt. They gave her the good stuff, so nothing hurts. Not her fractured scapula. Not the wound. Not the empty chair that he'd sat in on their last night together, his hand in her hair, his smile gentle as a forest fire. The days are cold, winter still lingering in the doorway; how is she supposed to keep warm without him?
Mr. Nam arrives with a wheelchair. "Are you ready, byeonhosa-nim?"
She smiles; now, that hurts.
Five.
"Tell me, byeonhosa-nim, aren't you the mafia? Can't you use a knife? Or would you rather just shoot the tomatoes to smithereens?"
"Your knife is dull."
"And yet you managed to cut yourself anyway."
"Dull knives are dangerous. I have to exert more force when I use it, and that's a recipe for injuries."
"...sorry. I'll sharpen it later."
"It's fine. I'll do it for you."
"With the same whetstone you use for your murder knives?"
"Yes? I clean it after every use."
"Try again."
"I'll buy a new one?"
"Good. Now, come here and let me kiss your boo-boo away."