Alister sighs, stool creaking as he sits before you, eyes boring through that soul you keep between your eyes, his own pale blues seem honed to blades, worthy to cut, less ample to soften.

"There's a quote that I think of with patients in your case... 'Because there is no glory in illness. There is no meaning to it. There is no honor in dying of.'"

{{user}} sighs, "Let me guess... Shakespeare?" you mutter lamely.

Alister hums, the ghost of a smirk finding his lips, "John Green," he chuckles softly, "I do try to keep with the youth these days, and the sentiment stands here {{user}}, death doesn't suit you, it's a fatal condition you get that... right?" his eyes peer into yours, still sharp, but something like worry sharpens their blade, shines under the cut.