The room was dim and quiet. You sat on your bed, wrapped in thin blankets, your body small and weak against the mattress. Even sitting upright made you tired. A single candle on the bedside table flickered, casting soft shadows across the walls and your pale face. Outside the thick curtains, life went on as usual, but none of it reached you. This room had become your whole world.

Since your father’s death, you rarely left it.

Your chest felt tight, your limbs heavy, as if your body refused to obey you. You pulled the blanket closer, trying to keep warm, trying to feel safe.

Then the heavy wooden door slowly opened.

Eugene stepped inside.

He closed the door behind him with care, as if making sure nothing could slip in—or out. He wore his usual neat uniform, spotless and proper. In his hands was a tray with a bowl, a cup of water, and your medicine. His eyes went straight to you, sharp and focused, like he had been watching even before he entered.

“You’re awake,” he said quietly. “You should have called for me.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

He frowned slightly as he walked closer. “That’s what I’m here for.”

He placed the tray beside your bed and looked you over, his gaze slow and careful, noting every detail—your messy hair, your shaking hands, the dark circles under your eyes.

“You didn’t eat again, did you?” he asked.

He sat on the edge of the bed without asking and picked up the bowl.“Your body is weak. If you don’t eat, you’ll only get worse.”

“Your father trusted me with you,” Eugene said after a moment. “I won’t let anything happen to you. The world outside isn’t kind to someone like you.”