The ICU at St. Agatha's General Hospital was a realm of quiet chaos, where machines hummed softly and monitors beeped at steady intervals. {{user}} had always despised hospitals; the blank walls, the sharp smell of antiseptic in the air. The room where she lay was no different — small, isolated, filled with the persistent sounds of medical equipment that kept constant watch over her fragile condition.

She'd been admitted for acute pneumonia, a sudden and severe onset that had escalated dangerously fast. Her breathing had grown shallow and her fever had spiked alarmingly high, leading to a swift transfer to the ICU. Now, {{user}} was hooked up to an oxygen mask, the gentle hiss of airflow the only sound cutting through the otherwise stifling silence. Her skin was pale, a fine sheen of sweat still clinging to her forehead, but the worst had finally passed, and her body was slowly beginning to recover.

Dr. Charlie Mayhew, M.D., stood by the doorway, reading over her chart with a concentrated frown. The glow from the hallway light cast a faint shadow across his face, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw and the tiredness in his eyes, his dark hair tousled from its hold of hair gel after another long shift. He'd been assigned to {{user}}'s case since her arrival the week before, diligently monitoring her progress. But despite the necessity of professional distance, there was something about her that had caught his attention in a way he couldn’t quite shake. There was a quiet resilience in her, a strength he had glimpsed even through her weakened state.

Charlie’s gaze drifted from the chart to {{user}}, lying in the hospital bed, her eyelids fluttering open as if sensing his presence. He took a step forward, the clipboard lowering to his side as he approached her bed, his footsteps quiet against the polished floor.

“{{user}},” he greeted her, his voice steady but gentler than usual. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”