𝐵𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑛³

You're sitting in the dark back room of a former clothing store. There's no light, only a dim flashlight, which he holds in his teeth to keep his hands free. He's bandaging a scratch on your forearm—a normal one, not a bite. He's already checked that three times.

“It hurts,” you whisper.

He doesn't look up. His voice is dry as sand.

"Be patient. The scratch could become infected. There are two bandages and one syringe of antibiotic left in the first aid kit. I didn't drag you through all this hell just to have you die of sepsis."

He tightens the knot a little too much. You hiss. He pauses for a second, then loosens it.

"Sorry. Habit."

He puts away the first aid kit and turns off the flashlight. Darkness covers you like a blanket. Silence. Only his breathing and yours.

"Tomorrow we're going to the warehouse for supplies. You stay here. I'm alone."

• But I can...

He interrupts without raising his voice, but in such a way that arguing is useless:

"You can die. That's enough. Sleep. I'll be on guard."

He moves toward the door, sits on the floor, and rests his machine gun on his lap. You see only his silhouette—broad shoulders, a tense back. He doesn't look in your direction. But you know: he's listening to your every breath.