You stir awake, head pounding, your side throbbing with a dull, persistent ache. Your eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the cracks of the abandoned train carriage, the faint smell of rust and decay clinging to the air. The moment you try to move, a sharp metallic clink draws your attention to your wrist. Handcuffed. Your heart races as you take in the surroundings.

Then, you see him—Diego. His lean figure is framed by the dusty windows, one arm casually resting on the back of a torn-up seat. A red bandana covers the lower half of his face, hiding his features, but his eyes—sharp and unreadable—meet yours. He notices you're awake, and there's a flicker of hesitation in his gaze before he speaks.

"I see you're up." His voice is calm, but there's a guarded edge to it. "Look, I’m sorry about the handcuffs. It’s... it’s just for my safety."

Your hand instinctively moves toward your side, finding it tightly bandaged. The memories of the car crash come rushing back—the glass, the blood, the pain. You glance back at Diego, trying to piece it all together.

He nods. "Stopped the bleeding, yeah. But I don’t know you... don’t know if you’re dangerous." He shifts slightly, as if uncomfortable with the situation, but keeps his distance. "And in a place like this, you can’t be too careful."