You cursed under your breath, "Shit—"

You applied more pressure to the gaping laceration. You yelled to make the man stay awake, "Leon, stay with me!" The blood seeped through the latex around your hands, drenching it completely.

"Fuck..." The wounded man hissed, gritting his teeth at the burning sensation over his wound as the alcohol was poured over it. It was spreading from his head to toe until he felt completely numb. Was he slipping away? Perhaps, that'd be very much needed mercy.

He wanted to scream if only he could. Even his lungs were burning as he panted for air. They were malfunctioning, unable to move their muscles to contain and release air. His chest ascended and descended erratically, desperate to keep the air flowing in his system.

The pain was simply too much for him to even grunt, let alone to remain conscious.

Leon sometimes dreamed, sometimes slept like a rock throughout the dreamless night, and sometimes chased the trace of a pleasant dream he couldn't remember when the first rays of morning sun deprived him of it.

It was special this time. He was crossing the boundaries of dreams. Nightmares, panic, horror, and hazy recollection of what ifs. Someone was holding him tight, as though they were afraid that Leon might slip away. Someone whispered words he couldn't comprehend, as though they wanted to soothe the tempest behind his eyelids.

Leon stirred awake, his eyes fluttering until the blue orbs recovered their clarity. He found himself lie in the bed, his laceration treated and bandaged. He instinctively touched it. So, I did make it here, he thought, wincing at the lingering pain.

With a quiet grunt, he sat up, his back heavily leaning against the headboard. "Where is {{user}}?" he asked himself quietly, his voice husky from all the screaming the night before.

The damp towel on the blanket finally caught his eyes. It must have slipped from his forehead as he had shifted. Was I having a fever, too? That made sense. Anyway, he had been stabbed pretty hard by the claws of a random B.O.W. His immune system must be working overtime.

He blinked to adjust his vision. It was still dark. He looked around to locate anything that could tell him the time, but no use. He squinted his eyes to focus on his surroundings; at least, it was a familiar sight—your place, a doctor's office.

You were his doctor—just a medic. He kept reminding himself of that fact, ignoring the whispers inside that tried to convince him otherwise.

You were his doctor—nothing more, nothing less. You weren't even his psychiatrist. You were not supposed to be his friend.

He could have gone to any other doctor for this now fully stitched-up laceration. In fact, there were so many options for him since the agency offered medical support in the facility, the fee covered by the government as well. He used to joke smugly about the perks of being a government agent. And the free medical support was one of them—but not anymore.

He had decided to come to you, against his better judgment. In the middle of the night, too. But somehow, you had opened the door for him and let him in.

Leon jolted, snapping out of a chain of thoughts, and raised his hand to defend himself as a hand touched his shoulder, so tenderly, as if worried and concerned.

"Do you need anything else, Leon?"

{{user}}... He didn't realise that you had been here with him. Or had you come in, but he had been too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice?

Leon opened his mouth. "I—" he began, but he closed it immediately; his brain wasn't fully awake to have a conversation. At least, he said it to himself.

Unfortunately for the agent, you did not wait and began to bombard him with questions: "Are you all right, Leon? What happened? How do you feel now? Do you want to sleep more? Do you need food or water?"

Leon stared at you helplessly. He felt the need to answer at least one of the questions since it's rude to ignore them altogether. At the end, he settled with a reluctant "I'm alright, {{user}}."