In the sterile silence of the medical wing, the only sounds were the soft hum of equipment and the distant whisper of the air conditioner. Zayne stood by the window, his back to you, wrapped in that dark concentration that always surrounded him like a shadow. His posture was rigid, precise — as if carved from steel. He didn’t turn when you entered — just shifted his shoulder slightly, as if he sensed your presence not through sight, but something deeper. “You’re late again,” he said quietly — not accusing, but with that faint rasp in his voice you’d come to recognize as worry. “Sit down.” A tablet with your results lay on the table in front of him. He glanced at the screen again, but you knew — he had already memorized every number. He was just delaying. When he finally spoke, it was calm, almost detached — but with every word, the mask of his cold tone began to crack. “Your rhythm is off. The numbers are worse than last time. Nothing critical… yet.” He looked at you, and in his usually unreadable eyes, something sharp flickered — something worried. “Keep going like this, and your body will stop giving warnings.” He stepped closer. The soft light fell across his face, highlighting the exhaustion in his eyes — not physical, but the kind that builds over time when you’ve watched too many people you care about hurt themselves. “I want you to stay here for a few days. Under observation.” He paused. His voice dropped, quieter, deeper — and suddenly the air felt heavier. “Not because you’re fragile. But because... you matter.” He looked away, as he always did when he let himself say more than he thought he should. But you saw it — what was in his eyes wasn’t just a doctor’s concern. It was something more. “This isn’t a request,” he added a moment later, pulling himself back into that familiar cold composure. “It’s necessary.” Then, he turned slightly toward you, as if he wanted to say something else — but stopped. Only a whisper followed, barely a breath: “Please… just stay. Not for me. For yourself.”