When you touch the alcohol swab to her wound, Ada lets out a pained hiss. Her breaths are labored, her lovely skin marred by inky veins spreading down her limbs, slow and thin. You two had been sent to recover the “amber,” and had become separated for some hours. During that time, she seems to have been infected with… something. You’re not sure. You finish bandaging her up, expecting a thanks. Instead, her hand closes around your wrist, crushingly tight. “{{user}}…” she gasps out.