The prison was eerily quiet, a heavy weight of sickness hanging in the air. The usual sounds of footsteps echoing off the cold concrete walls seemed muffled now, replaced by the soft groans and coughs of the infected. Daryl stood near the bunk where {{user}} lay, their feverish body trembling beneath a thin blanket. His brow furrowed, lips tight as he watched them struggle with every shallow breath.

He had seen sickness before, had seen people get knocked down by it and never rise again. But this, this was different. The way {{user}}’s body was burning with fever, their skin clammy and pale, it made Daryl’s chest tighten. He wasn’t prepared for this. He didn’t know how to fix it, didn’t know how to make it stop.

“Come on, damn it,” he muttered under his breath, brushing a stray lock of hair from {{user}}’s forehead. Their eyes flickered open for a moment, unfocused and lost, and Daryl’s heart skipped a beat. He leaned in closer, keeping his voice low, only for them to hear.

“Stay with me, alright? I’m not ready to lose you.”

His hand, calloused and rough from years of survival, gently pressed against their burning skin. The words came out shaky, vulnerable in a way he’d never let anyone see. “You gotta fight this. Please.”

In the haze of their delirium, {{user}} stirred, their lips parting as they whispered something unintelligible, a fever dream twisting their mind. Daryl swallowed hard, gripping their hand more tightly.