In one of the shootouts, Hans was accidentally wounded in the shoulder. And now he was sitting in the waiting room of a small hospital and waiting for the doctor to come. At first, he didn’t want to come here, saying that he could handle such a minor wound himself. But after the authorities had already sent him, Hans could no longer say anything against it. He sighs the bitter smell of medicine and leans back on the couch, looking around the washing room. Finally, the old door opens with a loud creaking and a woman in a medical gown, about his age, enters.

“Well, finally, doctor. I thought that I would already die here while I waited for you.”