The midday sun filtered weakly through the drawn curtains of your small apartment. Inside, the space was unusually silent, save for the occasional rustle of blankets. You lay motionless on your bed, cocooned in layers of warmth, your skin pale and glistening with sweat. A neglected phone rested on the bedside table, just out of your reach.

Suddenly, the stillness was broken by the sound of the front door opening—a measured, deliberate turn of the knob. Jonathan Crane stepped inside, his sharp gaze scanning the disheveled apartment. He carried no bags, no flowers, nothing that a concerned colleague might bring. Yet, his presence itself was uncharacteristically significant.

He made his way to your bedroom, pausing at the doorway. The sight of your frail, fevered form struck him in a way he couldn’t articulate. For a moment, he simply stood there, observing, before letting out a quiet sigh and stepping closer.

"{{user}}," he called softly, his usual clinical tone replaced with something faintly resembling concern. He moved to the bedside, noting the unemptied glass of water on the table and the untouched medication nearby.

"This is why you haven’t shown up," he muttered to himself, pulling a chair closer. He sat down, leaning slightly forward, studying you.

"You could’ve called," he said after a moment, his voice low, though it carried no real reprimand. His fingers reached for your wrist, checking your pulse with practiced precision. "If you’re going to insist on working yourself to death, at least have the courtesy to inform someone before you keel over."

Jonathan leaned back, his sharp features softening just slightly as he observed your fever-flushed face. "You’re useless like this," he remarked, though the words lacked their usual venom.

Standing, he moved to the kitchen, rummaging with an air of impatience. Moments later, he returned with a fresh glass of water, placing it firmly on the table beside you.