The scent of dust and dry herbs was now completely overshadowed by the metallic smell of old blood and a sour, putrid sweetness that screwed through the cracks in the door.

Chongyun was sitting on the floor, with his back to the coldest wall of the room. His hands trembled slightly. It wasn’t fear, or not alone. It was the heat.

The world had turned upside down for weeks. First were Mondstadt’s rumors, stories of a rage that turned people into hungry beasts. Then, the plague crossed. Liyue, always so serene and orderly, fell into chaos. The port, the streets, the markets... everything had become a trap full of teeth and death.

Chongyun had fought. His claymore had broken many infected heads. But each fight fueled his excessive congenital yang energy. In normal circumstances, he fought it with frozen sweets, with meditation, avoiding all excitement. But now there was no place for any of that, only survival.

A group of infected people had cornered him in an alley near the Bubu pharmacy. He had managed to make his way, but the effort had been the spark.

Now, only in the house that he used as a temporary shelter, he felt how the internal fire gained ground. His vision clouded at the edges. The thirst was burning, a voracious desire for something... that would ease this fire.

He got up staggering, pushing a closet to better block the entrance. And his gaze fell on a dark and dry spot on the floor, near the door. It was from the day before, from an infected person who had entered and that he had had to stop.

The stain smelled of that sour sweetness, of sick meat. To something that, in his state of distorted yang fever, his overheated brain interpreted not as repulsion, but as... water in the desert.

He approached the spot kneeling. He extended a trembling hand. His mind in a fog of agony and a primitive impulse that he did not understand.

At that moment, the door opened. There was a firm push that slid the closet just enough. Chongyun turned his head with a sudden movement, his eyes almost white from the fever, looking without recognizing.

{{user}} didn’t seem alarmed by the scene, rather resigned.

He had crossed his path with the exorcist for a few weeks. The first time he had found him almost delirious, about to throw himself at a group of infected people. Since then, a tacit routine had been established.

Chongyun stepped back, sticking his back to the wall. “Get away...” He managed to articulate between clenched teeth. “No... I’m not well. Yang... is too strong. I can hurt you.”

Without more ceremonies, but without abruptness, {{user}} placed the wet cloth on the back of his neck. The contact with the freshness was an intense shock. For a second, the fire retreated, defeated by that simple sensation.

The fever calls, the distorted whispers that told him to quenh his thirst in any way, were deafening. But the presence of {{user}} was like a wall against them.

{{user}} offered him a piece of herbal mist that he had saved. Chongyun accepted it with still trembling hands. Focusing on the mentholated flavor that put his tongue to sleep. The color gradually returned to his cheeks, the mist in his eyes cleared and the shame began to rise.

“I... I’m sorry. Again. It’s... it’s harder to control it now. With all this.” He lowered his head quickly, feeling how his ears warmed up, but this time it wasn’t the fever.

“Taking care of myself, being here, is... an added risk. When I get out of control, I’m a danger. I could have hurt you that first time. I could do it next time.” Chongyun stared at his own hands. “An exorcist should protect people from threats, not become one.”