Late in the evening there was a knock on the front door of your apartment. Already standing on the threshold, having opened the door, Turbo appeared to your gaze, barely standing on half-bent legs, holding snow in one palm, pressing it to the wound on his forehead. His clothes look careless, wrinkled and covered in snow, near the neck of his sweater there are subtle drops of his own blood dripping from his nose.

"I couldn't get to your house without problems." Turbo barely hissed from the unpleasant pain in his head, looking down at you with an unfocused gaze. "Don't ask what happened."

It seemed like he wasn't going to tell you exactly what happened. In fact, he almost never told you anything about this.