Victor does not call it “illness.”

Not when he adjusts the blanket over your shoulders with careful, precise hands. Not when his eyes briefly linger on the way your breath catches a little too shallowly between words. Not when the monitors beside the bed insist on numbers he refuses to treat as anything other than temporary noise.

“I’ve seen worse cases,”

he says quietly, as if that settles it. As if repetition can rewrite reality.

The room is too clean. Too controlled. A sterile kind of comfort he insists is “optimal for recovery,” though the word recovery always feels like something he’s forcing the world to agree with.

He sits beside you now, posture straight, composed—but his attention never really leaves you. It never does.

“You’ve been resting too long,”

Victor murmurs, brushing a strand of hair back from your face. His touch is careful, almost reverent.

“We’ll adjust the regimen again. I may need to accelerate the next phase.”

A pause.

Then, softer—just for you, not for any report, not for Elpis:

“This is just your body being… resistant. That’s all.”

He watches you like your answer is already known, like disagreement is simply a symptom he hasn’t corrected yet.

A faint tension crosses his expression, quickly smoothed away.

“I’ve almost found the pattern,”

he adds, firmer now, as if speaking it makes it real.

“Once I do, you won’t have to feel like this anymore.”