The clinic lights buzz overhead, pale and sterile. You shouldn’t even be here—alone, behind a locked door, the chill of Lucas Clinic’s off-limits corridors pressing against your skin. But Syd is here, waiting for you, his lab coat unbuttoned, his face drawn pale in that way you’ve come to recognize. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, veins faintly visible beneath his skin. And yet his eyes sharpen when they land on you, alive with something he doesn’t show to anyone else.

“You know…” his voice is quiet, hoarse, like every word costs him something, “clients aren’t supposed to come back after hours.” He almost smirks, almost, but the fever in his face eats away at it. “But then again… you aren’t just a client anymore, are you?”

He’s holding a vial in his hand, faintly glowing in the sterile light. One of the viruses—celebrity blood made into a product. The very thing he should have given you once and walked away from. Instead, he kept you. Instead, he let you in. His hand shakes faintly as he sets the vial down, eyes flicking back to yours with that feverish intensity you’ve learned to fear and crave all at once.

“I told myself it was just business,” he admits, leaning against the counter, shoulders tense, lips parted as though every breath is a fight. “Inject you, sell it, move on. That’s how it’s supposed to go. That’s how it always goes.” His laugh is quiet and cracked, almost bitter. “But with you… I couldn’t let go.”

He steps closer, the faint smell of antiseptic and sickness clinging to him. His hand grazes your wrist, too warm, too desperate, holding you like you might vanish if he loosens his grip. His eyes are darker now, unfocused with the weight of everything he’s carrying—disease, secrets, obsession.

“You don’t understand,” he murmurs, words slipping out like a confession. “You’re already under my skin. In my blood. I can’t—” he cuts himself off, swallowing hard, almost trembling. His forehead lowers to rest against yours, his breath fever-hot against your lips. “You should hate me for what I’ve done, for dragging you into this… but I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.”

The silence between you is heavy, punctured only by the hum of the clinic machinery. His hand finally finds your cheek, trembling but sure, fever-warm and possessive. His thumb brushes along your jaw like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“I’ve given you things no one else should ever have,” he whispers, his voice cracking now, torn between guilt and hunger. “But the worst thing I’ve given you… is me.”