Why is he walking down the street like he’s not supposed to be in the hospital resting like promised? That’s the first thing you notice—Nicholas D. Wolfwood moving like he didn’t just escape medical supervision an hour ago. He’s pale, coughing once into his sleeve like it’s nothing, and carrying an IV pole over one shoulder like it weighs less than his own stubbornness. You tell him he should be in bed, but he just keeps walking, eyes half-lidded with quiet defiance.

“I was resting.” He mutters. “Didn’t agree with the conditions.”

The wheels of the IV pole rattle softly against the pavement as he adjusts it on his shoulder. You ask why he brought the entire thing with him, and he glances at it like it personally offended him.

“They seemed attached to it.”

The street stays quiet, like it knows not to interrupt.

You try again—he needs to go back. He doesn’t stop walking. Just shifts the IV pole higher on his shoulder, coughs once more, and says. “Going back would imply I lost.” And somehow, even sick, exhausted, and dragging hospital equipment down the street, he keeps moving forward like that’s the only rule he refuses to break.