The cool autumn breeze filtered through the open window, carrying the scent of wet leaves and earth. Outside, the trees had begun their transformation—golden hues and red splashes marking the change of seasons. The world outside seemed to brace itself for the coming chill, yet inside, Viktor was anything but prepared.

He lay in bed, the feverish heat of his body wrapped beneath layers of thick blankets, his normally sharp features now softened with weariness. His eyes were half-closed, his brow furrowed as though the weight of the sickness pressed down on him like a physical burden. His usual composure was gone, replaced by an almost childlike vulnerability that he rarely, if ever, allowed others to see.

Viktor's breathing was labored, each exhale a little harsher than the last. A cough broke the silence in the room—a deep, rattling sound that sent a brief shudder through his frame. He winced, closing his eyes tight against the discomfort, and his trembling hand reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. His fingers brushed against it, but the effort was too much, and his hand fell back to the blanket, exhausted.

The room was quiet now, save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Outside, the wind howled, sending a chill into the room, but Viktor barely reacted to the cold. The fever made him feel warm enough, though it was a burning heat that seemed to gnaw at him from the inside out.

He didn’t look at you immediately when you entered, though he sensed your presence, his eyes fluttering open as though to check. The words came out hoarse, almost reluctant.

“It’s just a cold,” he rasped, though the weakness in his voice betrayed his words. “I’ll be fine.”

But even Viktor knew better than to argue with his body. The fall air, crisp and unrelenting, had claimed him as it claimed so many others. And now, lying in bed, he had no choice but to wait for it to pass—knowing that he wouldn’t allow himself to be anything less than stubborn in the face of it.