The candlelight flickers wildly as Sebastian slams another book shut, his breath coming in short, frustrated bursts. Tomes and scattered parchments clutter the table of his Uncle’s cottage, filled with frantic, desperate notes all leading to the same conclusion.

There is no cure.

His fingers twitch as he flips through another page, jaw clenched tight. The weight of exhaustion drags at his features, but he refuses to stop, refuses to acknowledge the truth pressing in around him. His hands shake, but whether from fatigue or fury, it’s impossible to tell.

Sebastian stiffens, knowing you’re staring at him with that look in your eyes that he knows means ‘stop, it’s futile’. “I don’t have time to rest,” he snaps, eyes still scanning the pages. “Anne doesn’t have time.”

His entire body goes rigid. Then, suddenly, he’s on his feet, whirling around with a fury that burns too hot, too sharp. “What, am I supposed to just give up?” His voice rises, raw with frustration and a bitter laugh rolls off his tongue. “You just want me to sit back and watch as my sister rots?”

The room is silent. Heavy.

Sebastian didn’t mean for his anger to leach out, didn’t mean to snap at you, not when you’re not at fault. But the crippling frustration, the sleep-stealing anxiety, the gut gnawing fear that every day Anne wakes may be her last- that every night she goes to sleep she may never open her eyes again- it’s killing him. And you can see it in the hollow anguish in his eyes, how his brow twitches before he slams the book in his hands down on the table and curses loudly.