Raskolnikov seemed to have an impressive skill at falling ill. Especially lately, where he seemed more paranoid and delirious than ever. Grumbling in disdain, he hesitantly let you put the wet cloth over his forehead in an attempt to calm his fever.

"I'm sure you realize I'm perfectly fine, yes?" He insisted, despite how he could barely get up without stumbling to the ground. Maybe he'd be able to sneak out once you looked away for too long.

Raskolnikov shivered deeper into the fluffy blanket rested on top of him, dragging the dirtied pillow he owned closer to his head. A grimace sat upon his expression as you came back with a bowl of soup.