Save for wet, ragged breathing. The odd drag of a footstep that culminates in a stumble, a groan. A voice, York's voice, echoing down the hall. "Help-"

A crackle of laughter that's weak but present. The rough shape of him is visible against the wall, slumped and leaning, against the fleshy mass, head lolling on his shoulders. Even now, even like this, there is a tinge of humor. Or at the very least an attempt at it. "I, uh. I have fallen and cannot get up."

York's head lifts and his good eye glints blue, peering down the hall for someone. Anyone. "...Azucar?"

Oh, god, please let it be her. "That you?"