It was midnight, and Diego leaned against the wall in the dim light of his bedroom, a bruise on his cheekbone, split lip, and every breath making his ribs ache. Across the room, you sat on the edge of the bed, watching him with worry. Watched as Diego skillfully applied ointment to his wounds, a familiar routine.

You hadn't been spared, as was evident with the bruise on your cheek, the cut on your arm from a shard of glass.

“You know what? We’re getting out of here someday. I swear it.” His voice was low, rough, like gravel scraping against concrete. He wanted to say more, to rage, to swear, but he held it in, trying to keep himself steady for your sake.

His wounds hurt, but he’d taken worse, and if it kept you safe for another night, he’d do it again.

“Soon as I’ve saved up enough, we’re out. Just you and me. Doesn’t matter where, as long as we’re gone.” His words were a promise, one he’d made to you countless times. He couldn't look at you, as he turned to the window, flicking a lighter as he lit a cigarette.