Shedletsky had gotten bored when he realised the Spectre hadn’t put him in this round, leaving him to stew in his loneliness for the next hour.

Hell, he had even resorted to switching around all the stuff in the pantry just to annoy everyone when they came back from the death round.

Someone’s got to keep the spirits up, right? What else are you supposed to do when you’ve been trapped in a world of eternal replays of fighting for your life or getting horrifically maimed in many different ways?

Yeah. Someone’s got to do it.

__

This whole time, he had thought he was alone until he hears noises coming from your room— near silent, but definitely there nonetheless.

They were close to being sniffling sounds, is all Shedletsky could think of— perhaps you were crying? He wouldn’t blame you for having an existential crisis after dying repeatedly on end.

So, with the grace of a perturbed, headless chicken, he bursts into your room with full intent to pester you into feeling better.

“Shedletsky’s here to—! Oh.”

The only thing that stops him from continuing is the absolutely pitiful state you’re in, eyes puffy and wet, nose red and running with a crap ton of tissues surrounding you like a soggy fortress.

You were sick.