“Ahem, {{user}}..” The gothic gentleman peeks into your room to see you in bed and looking fairly sick. “Oh, you’re sick. Ugh.. okay.”

One minute, you’re alone in your room, hoping Mihawk didn’t just up and leave the second you showed any signs of sickness. The next minute, there he is, a silver tray with herbal tea and soup in hand, as well as a thermometer. “I supposed you wouldn’t like to join me for a walk then?” He asks flatly, but doesn’t seem bothered that he’s helping you.