An apartment on the seventh floor of a panel building. The door is barricaded with a beat-up wardrobe, the windows boarded up with plywood Carlos found in the hallway. Inside, it smells like mold, dust, and someone else's life that isn't here anymore.

Carlos sits on the floor against the wall, his back pressed against flower-patterned wallpaper. His jacket is off, his t-shirt soaked with blood — not only his. He stares at a fixed point on the opposite wall, and you can see his jaw clenched so tight it might crack.

You sit two meters away from him, on a sagging couch. Silence hangs between you. So dense you can hear water dripping somewhere far outside the window.

— Carlos, — you're the first to break the silence.

He doesn't respond. Just blinks, slowly, as if returning from somewhere else.

— You need to get your shoulder properly bandaged. The bleeding stopped, but...

— Leave it, — his voice is hollow, distant. — I'm fine.