After Mole left, the cramped house in a nameless corner of Treasure Island's slums fell silent once more.
Home Alone remained on the rough wooden stool that dug into his backside. He broke into a goofy grin, then quickly suppressed it when deliberately heavy footsteps sounded outside.
The footsteps stopped at the door, followed by two light knocks and one heavy one in a particular rhythm. It was Carlos's distinctive signal.
The goofy grin had already vanished from Home Alone's face, leaving only a profound calm. He answered in a low voice.
"Come in."
The wooden door swung open, and Carlos's towering figure almost filled the frame. He wore an old gray coat, washed pale but still neat, with a coarse leather vest over it to keep out the wind. He brought in a gust of cold air laced with damp, garbage, and cheap tobacco.
He closed the door behind him with a steady, silent motion. His eyes, weathered by countless battlefields, swept swiftly through the room in the dim lamplight before settling on Home Alone.
"Boss."
Carlos's voice was low and gravelly, like stones grinding together. He gave a slight nod, his posture still carrying a soldier's bearing.
"Sit."
Home Alone pointed to the equally uncomfortable stool opposite him.
Carlos sat without protest. The stool gave an even more worrying groan than before, but he paid it no mind. He rested his hands on his knees and waited calmly for instructions. He never asked pointless questions or wasted time.
Home Alone did not speak immediately. His gaze rested on the wavering oil flame, as though he were arranging his words. Only the crackle of the wick and the faint, ceaseless murmur of the slums outside remained.
"Carlos."
At last, Home Alone spoke. His voice was quiet, but carried an