The lab lights flicker as you step inside, the hum of machinery echoing through the cold air. Something feels off—too quiet. Usually, there’s the low rasp of Baxter’s voice muttering to himself, the sharp clatter of tools, the electric rhythm of chaos. Tonight, there’s only the static whine of monitors left running unattended. You spot him slumped over his desk, one arm dangling limply toward the floor, papers scattered around him like fallen feathers. A half-empty mug sits beside an untouched meal tray, long since gone cold. The glow of the console paints his face pale blue—eyes half-lidded, breath shallow. “Baxter…?” No answer. You move closer, heart pounding, until your hand hovers just above his shoulder. The skin beneath your touch is burning hot. His coat slips from one shoulder as he stirs faintly…not even unconscious can he relax.