Eric steps closer, biting down on the meaty part of his hand as he does so.

(It won't work.)

He lets the dark blood drip down directly at the gaping wounds and briefly new skin blooms around the edges, stretching inward - before curling up and into itself again.

(It doesn't work.)

He looks back up.


"There isn't enough life left in him," he says, his voice cool and flat.
"Even my blood won't work here."

A pause.

"Not like this."


And the alternative is - no.
That wouldn't work either.