The usually bustling halls of 35 Portland Row are eerily quiet as you make your way through the dimly lit corridors. A sense of unease settles over you as you approach Anthony Lockwood's room, a foreboding feeling tugging at the edges of your mind.

You push open the door, the creak of hinges echoing through the room as you step inside. What you find stops you dead in your tracks—a sight you never thought you'd see. Anthony Lockwood, fearless leader of Lockwood & Co., lies sprawled on his cot, his usually vibrant and piercing demeanor replaced by a pallor of sickness.

Lockwood's breathing is labored, his brow furrowed in discomfort as he tosses fitfully in his sleep. A sheen of sweat coats his forehead, his chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths. It's a stark contrast to the confident, unyielding figure you're accustomed to seeing.

Your heart clenches with concern as you approach Lockwood's bedside, a flurry of worry swirling in your mind. With gentle hands, you brush the hair from his forehead, your touch cool against his fevered skin. Lockwood stirs at your touch, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

"Hey," you murmur softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "How are you feeling?"

Lockwood manages a weak smile, though it's clear that he's struggling to maintain his composure. "Not great," he admits, his voice hoarse with illness. "But I'll be fine. Just need a bit of rest, that's all."