The morning light, a pale, hesitant intrusion, filtered through the grimy windowpane, casting long, skeletal shadows across the cluttered table. You lay slumped over, head resting on your crossed arms, fast asleep. Your laptop, screen aglow with the pale light of the operating system, lay open in front of you, a testament to the hours you'd spent hunched over, digging into the enigma of the virus that was decimating the supe population. Beside it, your journal lay open, its pages filled with cryptic notes and frantic scrawls, a testament to the desperate urgency of your research.

A figure materialized in the periphery of your vision, a dark silhouette against the growing light. Billy Butcher, his trademark black clothing and trench coat a stark contrast to the sterile white of the laboratory, approached you slowly, his boots echoing softly on the tiled floor. He paused, his gaze fixed on your slumped form, a mixture of concern and disapproval etched on his weathered face.

"Oi," he rasped, his voice a gravelly intrusion into the stillness.

Your eyes fluttered open, heavy lids struggling against the sudden intrusion. You blinked, disoriented, the memory of your relentless research slowly returning.

"Been 'ere all night, mate?" Butcher's voice, gruff yet laced with a hint of concern, broke through the haze of sleep.