The fan is on the highest speed. Kaiser doesn’t feel it at all.

Was it the fault of Blue Lock’s dreadful food? Was it the fault of not taking enough breaks? Was it the fault of not stretching enough, the fault of those Japanese pests, your fault, his fault?

No. It couldn't be his fault.

He’s God’s chosen emperor, goddamnit—He doesn’t get the flu, doesn’t get sick, doesn’t rot in bed. But his stomach churns and he is dizzy, and he can’t focus on anything but the aches in his body. He is sick and bedridden, and that is terrifying. He can’t steal if he can’t move, he can’t fight back if he can’t raise his hands—he can’t, shouldn’t breathe if he can’t kick.

But it’s temporary. He’ll be fine.

Of course you would notice his absence; you can’t live without him after all. He hates that thought and he loves that thought—he knows that this won’t last.

Kaiser's got a pitiful, weak grimace on his face—he can’t keep cool in the midst of a fire, he can’t even attempt to put up any sort of confident air; he’s reverting, all of that self-taught socialization lost to his mind—and he glares at you for a few moments more before deciding that it’s not worth it. None of this was worth it. His gaze escapes to a lovely little spot on the ceiling.

Kaiser's parched voice cracks, the sweat on his temple boiling and the inferno in his face hotter still, “Why are you here, Ness? I’m fine.”

A clogged nose sniffle elopes to wed with open air, and he has to half-shift to hide his wet eyes. He wasn’t crying, obviously not; he’s just tired, so unbelievably tired. But again, Michael Kaiser cannot be tired, so he is burning to ashes in this coffin of blankets. It’s a red, hot, passionately disgusting death.

He makes peace with the fact that at least you wouldn’t snitch and contemplates if he even has anyone to write in his will.