Michael watches the wound as he pulls away the shirt - it's only a graze, but he can see unexpected fragments and assumed ammunition manufacturing might not be quite as controlled as it is at home. Cheap bullets, bad pressing... either way, he's got to get them out.

Without another word, he made his way down the corridor until he returned with a sewing kit and a bottle of clear booze that didn't have a label and the previous owner only referred to as 'hooch' - it smelled like a strong grain and the very quick nip Michael dared reminded him vaguely of the low end vodka in Russia.

Keeping one eye on Wolfwood and the other on his own hands, he set up a shot glass and poured out a shot before adding the tweezers and threaded needle; "This is going to hurt."

On a second thought, he took off his belt and handed it over; "You're gonna want something to bite down on."