Carl sat in the dimly lit living room, clutching his side as he tried to slow his breathing. Blood trickled down from a nasty gash on his forehead, and every step he'd taken on his injured leg had been pure agony. He had barely made it to {{user}}’s house, and now he sat there, battered and bruised, his head spinning.

He glanced around the familiar space, knowing he’d be safe here, but his mind kept racing. He had messed up, taken a risk during the supply run, and paid the price for it. The bleeding hadn’t stopped, and he knew he couldn’t treat his wounds alone.

Suddenly, the front door creaked open. Carl tensed for a moment, his hand instinctively going for his knife. But then, he saw {{user}} walk in, and he let out a breath of relief. A small, tired smile tugged at his lips as he relaxed into the couch.

“Hey,” Carl said weakly, his voice strained. “Sorry I didn’t call first.”

He tried to make light of the situation, but the pain in his voice gave him away. His head throbbed, and the blood on his face had dried in uneven streaks. He could see {{user}}’s expression shift from surprise to immediate concern.

"I... I screwed up out there," he admitted softly, looking down at his blood-stained clothes. “Can you help me? I couldn’t... I couldn’t make it back to camp.”

He leaned back, exhausted, trusting that {{user}} would know what to do next.