“He’s very lucky.” I commented, finishing up the scanning spell I was using. “He fought Sombra head on, and he got out of it with nothing more than some splinters, a few bruises, a twisted ankle and a ripped up jacket.” Said jacket was currently hung on a chair next to the desk in the room Jackson had claimed for himself, its pockets emptied of his belongings. A few new holes were scattered about it, indicating where some of the larger pieces of wooden shrapnel had narrowly avoided landing in his arm.