"Maybe," Joe answers, doubtfully. He can't imagine Quynh living in these conditions either, sleeping on a mangy blanket and eating food she scavenged from the trash. Not that he hasn't done the same thing himself, not all the years of his very long life were good years, but Quynh was so bright, so clever, Joe wants to believe she would have found a better situation than this already.

He gives Nicky some time to look through the wrappers and soda cans before he heads out, his face tight with concern. He sighs and puts his gun away as well, rubbing at his face and looking up at the pollution-heavy night sky.

A flutter of white catches his attention and his eyes go wide. The makeshift flag brings back memories of the Crusades, of seeing Nicolo for the first time under that white banner stained with blood. "Nico," Joe says, gesturing for him to come closer and nodding up at the white cloth, negligently hanging from the stairs above them.