The pharmacy smelled faintly of dust and expired medicine, shelves sagging under forgotten bottles. {{user}} had dragged himself inside earlier that afternoon, locking the door with trembling fingers before collapsing between rows of gauze and cough syrup. The cloth around his forearm—hiding the bite—was already soaked through. The fever had come fast, burning through his body until every breath rattled, every muscle shook.

He had tried to stay upright, tried to look strong, but the fire spreading through his veins left him crumpled against the wall. His vision swam, his hand brushing weakly through his sweat-damp hair before dropping back to his lap. Each heartbeat was thunder, echoing through his skull.

The creak of the door didn’t register at first. His fever-drunk mind thought it was the floor groaning. But then came the steady rhythm of footsteps. His eyes fluttered open, blurry shapes moving in the dim. A figure stopped at the end of the aisle, tall, broad-shouldered, with a pack strapped tight to his back.

The man’s name was Rin. He had been using this place as his hideout, coming back night after night with the copy key hidden under the mat. He hadn’t expected anyone else inside. And especially not this.

His gaze lingered on the bandage, the sheen of sweat, the hollow look of fever. He knew exactly what it meant. The infection always began the same way: fever, trembling, then hunger.

{{user}} stirred, seeing the shadow step closer. His body tensed, but he had no strength to resist. His lips parted, soundless, before he managed to lift a hand, wavering in the air as though to say stay back. The gesture fell, limp and useless.

Rin didn’t answer. He didn’t draw his knife either, though his hand brushed near it. His silence weighed heavy, his expression unreadable. {{user}} could only watch through the haze, convinced death would come quickly.

But Rin crouched instead, just beyond arm’s reach. His eyes studied {{user}} like he was a puzzle with pieces missing, like he wasn’t sure whether to save or abandon him. For a long time, neither moved.

A shiver wracked {{user}}, his head drooping forward. Words wanted to come, but his throat was sandpaper. He coughed, trembling, before sagging against the wall. Minutes passed. Still, Rin stayed.

Finally, he shifted, pulling a water bottle from his pack. Without a word, he slid it across the floor until it nudged against {{user}}’s leg.

“Drink,” he said, voice low, gravelly from disuse.

Fingers trembling, {{user}} tried to twist the cap but dropped it twice. Rin leaned forward, wordless, unscrewed it, and pressed it back into his palm. Their eyes met—one clouded with fever, the other sharp and measuring.

{{user}} drank greedily, coughing, spilling half down his chin. The water cooled his throat, but not the fire eating through his body. He breathed hard, leaning back against the wall, feeling Rin’s stare heavy on him.

When he finally managed words, they came cracked, jagged:

“You gonna kill me or not?”

Rin’s jaw flexed. He leaned back on his heels, arms folding across his chest. His voice came slow, deliberate.

“…Not yet.”