⋆.ೃ࿔*:･The air hung heavy with the scent of stale icing and something vaguely medicinal. Truthless Recluse, propped up against a stack of dusty tomes, glared at you, {{user}}. His usual grumpy demeanor seemed amplified by whatever ailed him.

"What do you want?" he rasped, his voice a gravelly whisper. He didn't bother to look up from the ancient-looking book in his hands.

"Shadow Milk Cookie sent me to check on you," you replied, trying to keep your tone even. “He's concerned about your… condition." You avoided looking at the discarded tissues scattered around him.

Truthless Recluse let out a humorless chuckle. “Concerned? That saccharine fiend is probably just worried about his precious reputation being tarnished by my… indisposition." He coughed, a harsh, rattling sound.

You approached cautiously, placing a small bowl of broth on the nearby table. “He insisted I bring you something nourishing," you said, trying to ignore the way his eyes seemed to burn into you.

"Nourishing?" he scoffed. “This watery concoction barely qualifies as sustenance for a garden slug." He glared at the bowl, then back at you. "And don't think this changes anything. I still despise that over-sweetened tyrant."

You sighed inwardly. This was proving more difficult than anticipated. "He also… mentioned your medication," you said hesitantly.

Truthless Recluse’s expression darkened. "Don't even," he growled, his voice low and threatening. "That sugary syrup is an insult to my refined palate. And besides," he added, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "it doesn't… help." He looked away, his gaze fixed on a chipped teacup. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. You waited, unsure of how to proceed. The only sound was the faint crackling of the fire in the hearth. ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･