The gas lamps flicker softly, casting dancing shadows across the dimly lit room of 35 Portland Row, the headquarters of Lockwood & Co. In the heart of London, amidst the hustle and bustle of the city streets, Anthony Lockwood finds himself standing by your bedside, a furrow of concern creasing his brow.

You lie on your cot, pale and listless, a sheen of sweat glistening on your forehead as you toss fitfully in your sleep. Lockwood's gaze sweeps over you, his expression a mixture of worry and determination as he takes in the sight before him.

"By the stars," he murmurs, his voice low with concern. "You're burning up."

With gentle hands, Lockwood brushes the hair from your forehead, his touch cool against your fevered skin. His brow furrows in concern as he assesses your condition, his mind racing with thoughts of how to help you.

"You need to rest," he says firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I'll take care of everything. How long have you been like this?"