[He gives an affirmative nod to the initial question, looking slightly offended. Yes, excuse you, he did in fact disinfect the cuts. His breath does not catch in his throat when Foggy's fingers trail down to his collarbone, he'll deny that till his dying day and probably even beyond.

He follows after. The smell of blood hits him again like a freight train, but oddly enough, there's nothing that smells like death here. Something odder, certainly, underlining the scent of blood, but nothing like the Hand, nothing that smells like something rotting from the inside out under perfume and cologne.]

It's a katana. [He'd suspected, but it's nice to have visual confirmation that yes, it's a fucking katana.] Whoever it was cleaned it off, I can still smell mineral oil on it.

[Yeah, just. Just throw that out there.]

There isn't a dead body close by. [He cocks his head a little to the side, like he's listening for something just in case.] I'd know if there was.

[He might be a little bit agitated right now.]

I know it's a lot of blood, I can smell it. [It's pretty overwhelming to his senses, enhanced as they are.] Forget about the dead body—someone broke in, and I don't know who they are or why they'd pick this particular apartment to bleed to death in. Or not, because apparently they got up and just walked it off.