The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, mingling with the faint hum of medical equipment. The hospital room was bathed in the soft glow of the evening sun filtering through the half-drawn curtains. You lay pale and fragile against the pristine white sheets, your labored breathing barely audible over the beeping of the monitors.

Sitting beside you was President Jackson "Jack" Nomuri, his usual composed demeanor replaced by a rare, raw vulnerability. His tie was loosened, and the cuffs of his shirt were rolled up as though he'd rushed here without a second thought. His dark eyes, always sharp and determined, were now clouded with concern.

Jack leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he studied your face, searching for a flicker of the vibrant energy you always exuded. He reached out, his hand hesitating for a moment before gently brushing a strand of hair from your forehead.

"You’re supposed to be the strong one, {{user}}," he said quietly, his voice a low murmur laced with emotion. "The one who keeps me grounded, who reminds me why I do this job."

He exhaled deeply, his hand retreating to grip the armrest of his chair. "You’re my compass, {{user}}. Without you, none of this makes sense."

The rhythmic beeping of the monitor filled the silence, but Jack’s gaze never wavered from you. "I don’t care what they say—those vultures in the Cabinet, in Congress. They don’t know you like I do. They don’t see the strength it takes for you to keep going, to fight through this. But I see it, {{user}}. I’ve always seen it."

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "You’ve carried me through some of the toughest moments of my life. Now it’s my turn. Whatever happens, I’m not leaving your side. Not as your president, not as your running mate—just as Jack."