[Ain looks sheepishly off at the opposite wall, where there's a dingy old closet hidden away behind a sliding wooden door. He doesn't know how to decorate his space and it shows by the absolutely Nothing there is here; the photos on the desk were things his friends gave him, not anything he acquired himself. Then he left for a long time, so there's still... nothing, obviously. But he thinks this pillow might be newer and less moth-eaten than the one he had years ago, so that means someone replaced it while he was gone.

Friends always return to each other, they say. ("Who says that" someone surely.)]

Haha... sorry. I didn't want you to worry about it. Your arm falling apart is worse, right?

[Sir you have a 102 degree fever,]

We're safe here. I know you're apprehensive, but even if people know you, you're safe. We have all types of people here. Ex-mafia and ex-military... Ms. Queen wouldn't have brought you to my old room if she thought you were going to hurt people.

[And it really is more of a "room" versus an "apartment"; a dormitory or studio situation, nothing fancy, but definitely nothing awful.]