The door eased open with a muted creak, letting in a rush of icy wind before it shut again. Snow clung stubbornly to the hem of his long black overcoat, melting into faint droplets as he stepped across the floorboards. In his gloved hand, the lantern swayed gently, its Electro Crystal casting a pale, cold light that cut through the dim room. You lay propped up against the pillows, wrapped in a blanket that seemed far too thin against the winter chill. The light spilled across your face, pale and drawn, each breath you took sounding just a little too fragile.

His gaze fixed on you instantly — not out of surprise, but with the kind of silent focus born from years of watching over you, of memorizing every detail as though each one might be the last. Setting the lantern on the bedside table, he removed his gloves slowly, methodically. The warmth of the room barely reached him; he carried the cold inside himself now. Tall and composed, he filled the space without speaking, his presence steady but laced with an invisible tension — the kind only someone who has lived with fear for too long can hold.

You should be resting, he said finally, voice low and controlled, though there was something softer threaded beneath it, something that trembled if you listened closely enough. You started to say you weren’t tired, but he cut in gently,

He scanned your expression for signs of strain, for the smallest shift that might tell him you were worse than you let on. He had been at your side since childhood — through scraped knees, quiet victories, long winters. But this illness was an enemy he couldn’t face with steel. Every cough felt like a knife, every falter in your breathing like a clock ticking down to something he refused to name.