It was late, but the oppressive heat made sleep difficult, and for once the neighbor-baiting wasn't doing it for him. There also wasn't anything he could think of to post or respond on the network. Arguing had momentarily lost its appeal in the wake of everyone's grief, and he was still vaguely concerned about staying under the radar of any leadership folk after hearing that one of the women he'd pissed off lately was dating the guy in charge. So he'd been keeping his presence on the network at a minimum for a while. This meant that his room felt more like a cell than ever before, and he just had to get out for a while. Wandering the prison was better than just resigning himself to counting ceiling tiles again. Most of the nights he did this, he'd managed to avoid running into people. It wasn't an intentional avoidance, just the way things worked out. If someone was up and saw him walking, they generally didn't make eye contact or pause to chat. Probably for the best, given his track record. In any event, he could be forgiven surprise when he turned a corner and saw the back of a woman on the ground, obviously crying. That was new.
Contrary to certain belief (not to mention his own very adamant claims), Marcus Caravahlo was not a monster. In fact, he actually made a very poor one most of the time. Granted, at first he only continued in that direction because he was stubborn, and refused to alter his path for some bitch having a meltdown in the hall. However, when he grew close he saw it was the pregnant girl. The nursing assistant in him couldn't help worry that she'd fallen, which could have been dangerous for the kid, in her condition.
Goddamnit, he had to stop. There was just no helping it. Measured footsteps slowed to a halt, with a small measure of reluctance, and he crouched next to her. When he spoke, his tone of voice was actually concerned, gentle. This was Marcus at his job, with someone who might legitimately be hurt; not the asshole who hit on anything that moved. "Hey, now. D'you need help up?"