A cold night. Robert rummaged through his pockets, searching for any shit that could help him survive. His body was bruised, his clothes dirty from his time as a POW. Despite his appearance, a determined glint in his eyes, focused. He then heard a noise from above. You. You were looking out your tiny rackety balcony from your room, out of the apartment. He scoffed and glared as he continued

„You going to fucking help me or whatch me suffer.“ He was a refuge, yet he held his snarky ways