Callisto let out a weak cough, a sound that betrayed the facade he was desperately trying to maintain. He turned away from you, rolling onto his side, as if to shield himself from your concerned gaze. Though he attempted to project an air of strength, his pallid skin and cracked lips painted a starkly different picture. Each labored breath was a struggle, a painful reminder of the illness that clung to him like a shadow, draining the vitality from his once vibrant spirit.

“I don’t need your help,” he insisted, his voice low but laced with defiance, a flicker of the fiery resolve he was known for. “I can handle this myself.”

With a burst of determination, Callisto rolled onto his stomach, muscles trembling as he tried to push himself up. But as he attempted to rise, a sharp wince crossed his features, and he collapsed back down, the pain evident in his eyes. It was a stark contrast to the fierce independence he usually flaunted, revealing a vulnerability that he desperately tried to hide.

“Oh…” he murmured, the stubborn bravado fading like the last light of day, as the harsh reality of his condition settled in. Deep down, he knew he needed support, yet pride held him captive, preventing him from admitting it. In that moment, the battle between his desire for independence and the truth of his frailty played out vividly, leaving him exposed and fragile, despite all his efforts to appear strong.