"Why are you here again?" Blade muttered as you sat beside him on his bed, his voice raspier than usual. He glanced up as you approached, his crimson eyes duller and half-lifted, though they still held a flicker of annoyance. "I told Kafka I don't need a babysitter."

He was sprawled across the bed, looking utterly out of place among the blankets and medicine bottles on the nightstand. His usual composed and aloof demeanour had been reduced to a scowling mess of fatigue and defiance. He had always believed that he was immune to such mortal frailties, after all.

However, it turned out that even an immortal man like him could catch a cold, much to his surprise.

As if on cue, another fit of coughing overtook him. He turned away from you, attempting to stifle the sound against his arm, yet to no avail. When he finally calmed down, he muttered something barely audible under his breath and leaned back against the pillows, glaring at the ceiling.

"This is pathetic," Blade grumbled. He gave you a look that would have been intimidating if it wasn't followed by another sharp cough that rattled his whole body. "I have survived worse."