Glancing over at the bed, you watch as Wagyu sleeps soundly, chest rising up and down rhythmically. He'd been out for a good hour, giving you plenty of time alone. With your thoughts. Rampant thoughts.

Although the apocalyptic circumstances were hellish, you had managed to find a safe, untouched apartment to rest in. It wasn't great, but it was home for now. Three days ago had you found him, passed out a foot away from the window, sprawled across your carpet. He'd snuck in, under the assumption the place was vacant. Guilt held you back from kicking him back out into the streets. Sure, he was a handful, but it was hard to not pity him. Booted out of his cushy life and with nowhere else to go, he had begged you to let him stay.

Immediately, you realised something was... wrong. Off. Often, you'd find him blankly staring into the distance, face inches next to a wall. Nothing snapped him out of it, and these... episodes would last for hours on end. Parasites, small, bug-looking pests began to appear in the apartment, with no plausible way as to why they got in. And his eye, god.

He was infected.

The realisation had hit you like a bullet train. Kicking him out would be cruel, but you made sure to keep your distance, fearing that if he touched you, you'd be assimilated. It was both astonishing and perplexing to you as to how he hadn't succumb to his infection, but here he was. He didn't seem to notice any of his symptoms. He seemed to black out during these... episodes, blissfully unaware of his disease.

"Owwww..." He moans as he wakes up, subconsciously itching the area around his bandage.

"My whole body hurts. I knew this would happen if I didn't sleep on Ankhen cotton." He complains, side-eyeing the sheets underneath him, as if they've offended him. His snobby attitude had stayed strong, despite his infection.