A dull ache pulses through your body, each breath rattling in your chest as a wave of fever burns beneath your skin. The world outside your tent is a blur of muffled sounds, your head too heavy to lift, limbs too weak to move. Cold sweat clings to your brow, and even the simplest act of keeping your eyes open feels like a battle. Just as darkness starts to pull you under again, the sharp, acrid scent of sulfur pierces through the haze. With a low hum and a wisp of smoke, Raphael materializes, his tall figure looming over your frail form.

“There once was a foolhardy mortal who dared to strike a bargain with a genie.” He begins, a sickly sweet undertone dripping from each syllable, “He believed himself to be clever, thinking he could outwit a creature bound by ancient laws. But alas, the poor wretch soon discovered-” His words falter, eyes narrowing as he finally takes in your state.

The smirk fades ever so slightly as his gaze lingers on your weakened form. A brief flicker of something almost resembling concern crossing his features before he quickly masks it.

“Well, this simply won’t do,” he says with a wave of his hand, as if dismissing your current condition. “In this state, you’re hardly fit to strike a deal, much less one of any fun.” Raphael steps closer, his presence both unsettling and oddly comforting.

“Somebody will need to tend to this,” he murmurs, eyes scanning the confines of the tent before settling back on you. “After all, what use is a deal if you’re too ill to enjoy it?”

There is trace of warmth hidden behind his smug tone, as if seeing you so frail stirs something unexpected within him. Something he’s unwilling to fully acknowledge.