The metro isn't running. The trains stand motionless in the dim flicker of emergency lights — turned into shelter from whatever is happening above.

Carlos sits across from you, wearing a bulletproof vest, a weapon resting on his knees. He's holding something near his chest, tucked into a breast pocket, almost absentmindedly. He seems to be trying to look relaxed. But his eyes occasionally dart around, like he’s expecting someone — or something — to come through that door. And chances are, someone will.

You don’t immediately realize your gaze has lingered on his pocket. Only when he notices do you catch yourself. A smirk spreads across his face. One eyebrow arches.

— “Wanna see what’s in there?” — His voice is unexpectedly light. Even… confident. As if he hasn’t spent the last few hours surrounded by screams, blood, and torn-apart bodies.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. His fingers carefully unfasten the flap, and from the pocket, he gently pulls out… a tiny kitten.

A small, scruffy ball of fur. Frightened eyes, ears pinned back, paws trembling — from cold or stress, it’s hard to tell.

Carlos looks at it for a moment, then looks at you.

— “Found him in a pharmacy, near a supply closet. All alone. No idea how he made it,” he says, no longer smiling.

The kitten lets out a weak mewl. Carlos gently places it down on a folded backpack, covering it with what looks like a jacket to keep it warm. Then he leans back and exhales heavily. He’s clearly exhausted, but trying not to show it.

Suddenly, he turns to you again, the smirk returning slightly.

— “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation,” he adds in a near whisper, like he’s sharing a secret.