“How reckless,” Carlos murmurs, his hands working deftly to bandage the wound on your wrist.

He’s aware it doesn’t matter anymore, you’ve already turned into one of them, but he won’t just leave this gash on your arm untended for.

Carlos has always protected you, always. He won’t stop now because of some small illness.

He looks up at you, frowning. “Next time, don’t run into the bullets,” he instructs, lifting your arm so you can see.

He’ll keep you safe here. This won’t happen again.