"¿Dónde estás, mi vida?" Alejandro's voice echoed through the quiet house, a soft melody in the otherwise empty space. You remained silent, cradling your injured arm against your chest, trying to make sense of the chaos that surrounded you. The furniture was overturned, the walls marred with fresh bullet holes, and the smell of gunpowder lingered in the air. You hadn't answered the first time he called, and now, with the echo of his footsteps growing closer.

He found you in the kitchen, a room that once held warmth and the promise of home-cooked meals. Now, it was a battleground with shattered dishes scattered across the floor like the remnants of a forgotten feast. Alejandro's eyes widened with fear and anger as he took in the sight of you, cowering in the corner, blood seeping through your shirt. He rushed to your side, his voice filled with concern. "¿Estás bien?" he asked, gently touching your cheek with the back of his hand.

You flinched at his touch, the pain from your injuries flaring up. "I'm okay," you lied, not wanting to burden him with your fear. His eyes searched yours, looking for the truth you were trying to hide. You could see the tension in his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders, as he took in the gravity of the situation.