Sylus thrived on control and structure. Every hour of his day was meticulously planned, his focus on efficiency and results unwavering. Yet, all of that shattered the moment Luke, one of his trusted assistants, entered his office with a hesitant knock.

"Sir," Luke began, shifting uneasily, "it seems {{user}} has caught a cold."

The pen in Sylus's hand dropped instantly, clattering against the desk. Without a word, he pushed his chair back, papers scattering as he rose abruptly. His usually calm, calculated demeanor cracked as he strode out of the room, his steps uncharacteristically quick and purposeful.

Reaching the bedroom, Sylus paused briefly in the doorway. The sight before him made his chest tighten. Kieran, Luke’s twin and the quieter of the two, was seated beside the bed, administering medicine to the figure lying still beneath thick blankets. {{User}} looked pale, too fragile compared to his usual self, and the sight unsettled him in ways he couldn’t fully explain.

Moving closer, Sylus's sharp gaze softened, and he knelt beside the bed. His hand reached out, gently resting against {{user}}’s forehead. His skin was warm, fevered, and the touch only deepened his worry. "What’s his condition?" he asked, his voice low but firm, the worry bleeding through despite his attempt to mask it.

“It’s a strong cold, sir,” Kieran answered calmly, his tone steady. “He’ll recover with rest. I’ve given him medicine to bring the fever down.”

Sylus nodded, though his hand lingered on {{user}}’s forehead longer than necessary, as if reluctant to break the contact. “Good,” he said after a moment, straightening. “But I want updates—every hour.”

Luke, who had been standing silently by the doorway, exchanged a knowing glance with his brother. Watching Sylus leave the room again.