The house was old. Too old. The wallpaper peeled at the edges like paper burned by time, and the air was thick with dust and rot. The kind of place that had been abandoned long before the outbreak ever touched Raccoon City. Still—it was shelter, and right now, that was the rarest kind of luxury.

{{user}} slammed the door shut behind them, and Carlos didn’t hesitate. He shoved an overturned dresser in front of it, chest heaving with exhaustion. Outside, the screeches of the infected echoed through the streets—flesh-hungry, animalistic, endless. They hadn’t stopped moving in two days. Close calls. Too many of them. And yet, somehow, they were still alive.

"Get the window," Carlos said, voice low but firm, nodding toward the gaping glass frame at the far end of the room.

Together, they dragged a heavy oak bookshelf and a few chairs to block it off. No matter how makeshift, it was enough for now. Enough to breathe.

And for the first time in hours… they both did.

Carlos pressed his back against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the worn-out carpet. His rifle rested beside him, always within reach. Sweat clung to the nape of his neck, and blood—some his, some not—streaked down his arm. His curls were matted to his forehead, and his chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm.

He glanced at {{user}}, who sat across from him, back also against the opposite wall, the orange hue of dusk casting soft shadows across his face. Carlos looked at him—really looked at him—and he couldn’t stop the small, crooked smile that tugged at his lips.

“Y’know,” Carlos started, his voice hoarse and quiet, “I’ve been in warzones, seen cities crumble, watched men turn on each other for scraps.”

He paused, resting his head back against the wall, eyes flicking to the barricaded door, then back to {{user}}.

“But I never thought I’d make it this far in something like this. Not without losing my damn mind.” Another breath. Then a softer confession: “And I sure as hell didn’t expect you.”

There was a warmth behind those words. Not flirtation—not yet. Just honesty. Raw and real. The kind of honesty you can only get when death is outside your door and the silence between you feels more intimate than words.

Carlos’s eyes flickered down for a moment, almost like he was afraid of being too seen. Then, with a tired but genuine chuckle, he added:

“You ever think we’re not gonna make it out of this, then suddenly remember we’ve already made it farther than most?”

He looked back up, meeting {{user}}’s eyes fully this time. There was something steady there now. A gravity that hadn’t been there in the chaos—only in the quiet.

“Just sayin’…” A pause. “If I’m gonna die in some creepy-ass house with peeling wallpaper and zombie screams outside, I’m glad it’s with someone who knows how to shoot straight and doesn't talk bullshit.”

His smirk softened, voice dropping low—barely above a whisper.

“And for what it’s worth... I trust you, man. I don’t say that to just anyone.”

The distant moans of the infected echoed faintly through the cracks in the wood, but inside, the world was still.

And for now, that was enough.