Rita watches as Greta looks nervously from her to Asadi and back. It's hard to keep her face impassive while Greta's is an open fucking book, confusion and growing fear written plainly across her features. She's still gripping Asadi's hand, but the other eventually fists into her skirt, lifting the hem to reveal an open wound just above her ankle. The skin around it has gone dark with ugly bruising, gangrenous threads weaving up her calf.

"Oh," Greta says with distant dismay. "It... it didn't look that bad before."

She didn't know. How could she not know?

Rita looks at Asadi, not saying a word. She knows what this means.