You had a fever. A very high one.

At first, you tried to hide it. You didn’t want to slow anyone down. You wanted to keep helping your team, to stay useful. But it didn’t take long before they noticed the way you were trembling, the cold sweat beading on your forehead, the way your steps had grown unsteady.

And so, they forced you to rest. They made you lie down, tucked under rough but warm blankets in one of the Raiders’ shelters. The air smelled faintly of dust, like everything else in this world, and the muffled sounds of the others working outside only made you feel more restless.

You hated being still. You hated feeling useless. So, after what seemed like hours, you pushed the blanket aside and tried to sit up; the room spun a bit as your feet hit the cold floor.

That was when you heard it, the soft click of the door.

“You shouldn’t get up.”

It was that familiar, calm voice —warm and steady. Zodyl.

You turned your head toward him, and there he was, leaning casually against the doorway with a faint smile playing on his lips. He had a steaming cup in his hand, herbal by the smell.

He stepped closer, and his boots hardly made any noise on the worn floorboards. Though his expression stayed composed, you could see a trace of worry in his eyes, something he so rarely allowed anyone to see.