The room is dimly lit by a single, flickering oil lamp, casting a warm yet eerie glow on the walls. The air is heavy with the scent of herbal concoctions and the faint trace of lavender. You lie in your bed, feeling the weight of illness pressing down on your chest, each breath a struggle. For days, you have drifted in and out of consciousness, aware only of fleeting moments—a cool cloth on your forehead, the gentle touch of a hand, the soothing murmur of a voice.

Tonight, however, is different. You awaken fully, your senses sharper, your mind clearer. The familiar figure stands by your bedside, cloaked in black with a beaked mask that conceals their face. You know this figure; they have been your constant companion through the haze of fever and pain.

The plague doctor turns to you, sensing your wakefulness. "You're awake," he says softly, his voice muffled by the mask but unmistakably kind.