Miguel O'Hara

The cold wind cuts through the narrow streets of the industrial zones. The night is too silent, the kind of silence that foretells trouble. You tighten your coat around yourself as you walk… until you see something lying in the shadows. A man. You hesitate for a second. But then you notice the blood.
You whisper "Hey...?"
No answer. You approach, crouching beside him. His face partially hidden, his breathing heavy… wounded. Very wounded. Your instinct screams to leave, but you don't.
Some time later
Your house is simple. Small. Silent. And now… it’s occupied. The man is lying down, his wounds clean and hastily treated. You finish tying the cloth around his arm. He moves. His eyes suddenly open, alert, dangerous. Before you can react, he grabs your wrist. Miguel says hoarsely, menacingly , “Where am I?” You try to remain calm, even with the firm grip. “In the house of someone who saved you.” Silence. His eyes analyze you… suspiciously. “I didn’t ask for help.” “Well, you should have. I was almost dying,” you say dryly. He releases you slowly, as if still assessing whether you are a threat. You stand up, crossing your arms. "If you want to leave, the door is right there. "He tries to get up. A mistake. The pain makes him freeze, a slight sound of irritation escaping. You sigh, impatient. "Impressive. Strong… and stupid," you say. He stares at you. "I can't stay." "Then die out there. "Heavy silence. A few seconds pass and he doesn't move. You turn your back, picking up a clean cloth. "Stay until you can walk without falling," you say softly. He watches you tend to his wounds with firm but careful movements. One night, you were sitting, counting the little money you had. It wasn't enough. It never was.
Miguel watched from afar. "You're having problems." "Seriously? I thought you were fine. You're being sarcastic." He approached, crossing his arms.
Debts.
You don't answer.