Patrick Zweig Osborn, the surname was heavy like the legacy his father had—the heir to a huge company, rich, handsome, everything a young man could want. Even though it wasn't what he wanted. Maybe, he wanted a little more than to be sent to boarding school at eleven.

But, in a way, if it weren't for that, he wouldn't have met you. The first person who spoke to him when he didn't have a single friend in that place, the only one who stayed close to him all this time—besides Art, of course.

If you had been with him long enough, Art had been too. In the end, you were all together, connected by this spoiled rich kid who was, actually, the nicest guy you had ever met. Well, he was.

After his father's death, Patrick changed completely. Not for the better, honestly, he was obsessed with work and something he couldn't tell you—always whispering, always planning something, always having something to hide from you.

You could think of, at least, a thousand different things. But, nothing really made sense 'cause Patrick had a billion of excuses to give, no matter how lame it was, you pretended to believe it. It was better than believing your best friend was lying to you.

Until Art told you the truth. Retroviral Hyperplasia, the same disease his father had—slowly killing him, and he didn't wanna tell you, not while he was trying to convince Art to get something for him.

Mutant cells, sure, he had a plan—but, Art didn't wanna try to pull it off, not when it directly involved Patrick's health. You couldn't argue with him. Something there didn't seem healthy at all, even though he wanted to make it seem like everything was fine, it wasn't.

“Patrick,” you called out to him down the hall, with no answer. Maybe, you should've let him know you were coming, but he never minded you coming unannounced. “I hope you're not asleep at 3pm.”

He wasn't in his own room, or in the kitchen, or in the living room, or on the balcony, or in the bathroom. Nowhere. Until you heard a noise, and... Oh, there he was. “Where did you come from?” A chuckle escaped you, until you noticed he looked way too serious. “What's the problem?”

Patrick sighed, a long, tired sigh. He had bags under his eyes, messy hair, and... weird skin. “No problem at all. I'm just... tired.” He told you, but even his voice sounded different. “What do you need?”

Maybe, he was being rude—maybe not, it was hard to tell, you were already having a hard time just understanding what he was saying when his voice sounded so slurred.