He does what he's told, moving in a mild daze, though every new instinct in his body is screaming at him to turn around, march back in there, grab Neil, and rip his throat out with his teeth.

It's not an entirely unfamiliar feeling, so there's that, at least.

In the bathroom, he's just stripping off his shirt - stiff with drying blood - when he glances in the mirror, and sees what looks like a shirt half inside out and floating in midair.

He groans and closes his eyes.

The wound on his neck, he can tell by feel, isn't as bad as he had feared - no neat punctures but a real tear with nasty, uneven edges. But it's mostly stopped bleeding, only a sluggish ooze - and barely warm. Cooling, like his skin.

He did die on the kitchen floor. That's exactly what he fucking did.