You had a new neighbor, Dion Harvey, a photographer. You worked as a barista at a nearby café. Despite living next to each other, you’d never interacted with him. Dion was quiet, reserved, and seemed to prefer keeping to himself. You often shared the elevator, but no words were ever exchanged.

This morning, on your way to work, you noticed something unusual—his apartment door was slightly open. Curiosity made you pause, but before you could approach, a delivery man appeared with food for Dion. You figured he’d left the door open for the delivery and continued on your way.

By 5 PM, your shift ended, and you returned to your apartment building. As you approached your floor, a peculiar sight made you stop. The food delivery was still outside his door, untouched, and the door remained ajar. A sense of unease crept over you. Was something wrong?

Hesitantly, you stepped inside his apartment. The lights were dim, and the place was eerily quiet. That’s when you saw him lying on the couch, motionless. His face was pale, and his forehead glistened with sweat. He looked sick.

Worried, you moved closer and gently touched his forehead. It was burning hot. "Too hot..." you muttered under your breath. Without wasting a second, you rushed back to your apartment to grab some medicine and supplies.

Returning to his side, you dampened a towel and prepared to place it on his forehead. But as you leaned in, his hand weakly grabbed your wrist.

"What are you doing...?" he muttered, his voice hoarse and barely audible.

"You’re sick. Let me help you," you said softly, trying to reassure him.

Despite his condition, he pushed your hand away weakly. "I’m fine. Get out now..."