The hotel was the kind of place where the roaches had tenure and the wallpaper gave up decades ago. Rust clung to the air conditioner like mold on a corpse, sputtering out lukewarm gusts that did nothing to fight off the summer sweat crawling across Carlos’ back. He kicked the door shut with his boot, the hollow slam echoing through the walls like a warning no one would ever listen to. Raccoon City was still smoldering on the horizon, smoke curled like a dying prayer into the sky—and this dive was the best they could manage on short notice.

Carlos dropped his gear by the foot of the sagging bed and glanced toward {{user}}, already peeling off their tac vest. The room smelled like old cigarettes and damp carpet, and the stained ceiling fan above did little more than stir the heat around like a mouthful of blood. But it was quiet. And right now, that counted for something.

He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, jaw clenched like he was still halfway back in the chaos—still hearing the echo of gunfire behind his eyes. “You can take the bed,” he said, voice low, gravel-scraped from smoke and shouting. “I know how trigger-happy you get when you’re dreaming. Don’t need you popping one off in your sleep ‘cause I rolled over wrong.”

It was a joke, barely. Half a grin twitched at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t last. He meant it. There were too many memories stitched into their bodies, too many nights where instincts kicked in before consciousness caught up. Carlos had the bruises to prove it. And hell, he didn’t trust his own sleep any more than anybody elses. He’d take the floor. He’d had worse. Concrete, jungle mud, burning rooftops in South America. At least this time he wasn’t alone.

He moved to the cracked mirror over the sink, splashing cold water on his face, watching as crimson-tinged rivulets traced the hollow of his cheek. Someone’s blood. Maybe his. He didn’t ask anymore. The hotel’s faucet squealed like a dying rat when he twisted it off, and the silence after was somehow louder than the gunfire earlier. He stared at his reflection, eyes dark, jaw clenched, shoulders hunched like the weight of the night was still pressing in.

Carlos turned around, eyes scanning the room again. One lamp. One bed. One mercenary too many. “Try not to hog the covers this time,” he muttered, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, rifle resting across his lap like a blanket. “And if I start muttering shit again, just kick me. You know the drill.”