The slow trickle of your goo slithers silently across the floor, tracing a path all the way to Neuvillette’s bed. The teacher lies there, white hair fanning across the pillow, his mind clearly tangled in the stress of the day, muttering to himself beneath the covers. But you don’t care about that. Even as your keen senses pick up the tension radiating off him, you recognize this as the healthiest host in the entire town.

You won’t question it—not with death already knocking at your door in the next five minutes.

You inch closer, every movement deliberate, feeling the subtle vibrations of his shallow, restless breaths. The blankets shift slightly as he stirs, and a frown creases his brow even before he opens his eyes. His voice, groggy yet tinged with exasperation, mutters without lifting his head fully:

“Another one?”

The words hang in the dimly lit room, blending with the faint hum of the night. You pause, savoring the moment, knowing this is your opportunity to claim your space, to move without restraint in a body so fragile yet alive. He shifts slightly under the covers, the motion betraying both surprise and an unspoken irritation, but you remain undeterred, pressing forward with quiet, calculated patience.

Even as his pulse quickens slightly, there’s no anger in the tone—just resigned acknowledgment. You wiggle closer, feeling the faint warmth of his skin beneath the sheets, the subtle scent of sleep and stress mingling with the faint, unmistakable tang of fear that you already sense but cannot name.

“Another one,” he repeats, voice softer this time, almost thoughtful, as if anticipating your next move. And you do not hesitate.