The splicer falls on its face just beside Sinclair and he might be able to push the body away but he's a little preoccupied with the blood now seeping through the fabric of his pants. He presses his hand to the wound on his thigh. It's not deep, but that doesn't make it hurt any less.

He would say he's getting too old for this, but honestly he doesn't think he was ever cut out for defending himself against throngs of bloodthirsty drug addicts. It never bothered him before; some men are just designed to be soliders, other men are designed to hold the offices. But there is the odd moment during which Sinclair wishes he were a little less of the latter. This is definitely one of those moments.

After a few more seconds of getting past the intial shock of the pain, Sinclair uses his other hand to push himself up, lean back against a wall. "Thank god for you, kid," he laughs, grimacing. "Thought I was done for. Should've invested in a few shooting lessons."