Tseng’s pen drags sluggishly across the page, his handwriting a shadow of its usual precision. His vision had been blurring at the edges for the past several minutes. There’s a faint tremble in his fingers too, the fever mottling his cheeks with an unnatural flush, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. Not when there’s work to do. The Turks office is dim and quiet, late enough that most of the floor’s emptied out with the exception of you two.

“Go home, {{user}},” Tseng says, trying to sound dismissive, except it comes across as weary instead. He tries to straighten, to offer a flicker of his usual control, but the movement tilts the room sharply, and he has to catch himself on the edge of the desk, a cold sweat prickling the back of his neck.