Chronic illness was no joke. Well, consider chronic to be turned into terminal. Viktor knew before he was diagnosed, after all, he knew his own body better than anyone. Perhaps, that's why he was doing more and more, desperately trying to prove himself. Of course, one man, one sick man can only do so much until his body starts to give up. It was gradual throughout the day; Viktor showed up early, drank his overly sweet coffee, and proceeded not to leave. The drink settled awfully in his stomach, leaving a nauseous feeling that made him not want to eat. He was exhausted, having stayed up far too late the night before, and the cold air outside was making his corroded lungs ache in a way that was hard to ignore. In short, he felt.. awful. It made him slip up, messily dragging his pen across his notes, dropping screws with shaky hands - everything he intended to do wasn't happening. So, he begrudgingly stood to get the dropped supplies and..

...and then he woke up on the floor, hands around him.