The cold crept in through the metal walls, but the room remained sterile, clinical, painfully still.

Zhanli lay on the wheelbed, surrounded by looping tubes and humming monitors. His skin was nearly translucent — veins like pale ink beneath fragile flesh. His chest rose in slow, hesitant movements, each breath a small rebellion against the body that had betrayed him since birth.

You stood near the door, the crimson mark of the Fatui on your shoulder stark against the dim light. You didn’t move closer. Not yet.

His hair, dark with streaks of muted amber, spilled like ink across the pillow. His eyes were barely open, lashes fluttering as if even dreaming took too much from him. Beside the bed, a tray of untouched soup had long since gone cold.

He didn’t flinch at your presence. He was used to being observed. Monitored. Judged.

Zhanli’s fingers twitched slightly, reaching toward nothing — or perhaps someone long gone.

The sound of the machines was constant, but the silence between you both was louder.

In that moment, he looked less like a son of gods… and more like a child left to fight battles his body could never win. Yet still alive. Still breathing.