The lamp. The walls. Cold, bare walls, one metre of white tile, blinding, reflecting the light. {{user}} sat curled up in bed. The pain pulses deafeningly through {{user}}’s body, stretching in searing threads from their shoulders to their shoulder blades, from their stomach to your thighs. Every movement echoes as if {{user}}’s all cracked up inside, glued together hastily.

The door opened with a quiet, drawn-out creak. He enters the room without bothering to knock. Dottore is a shadow in his dressing gown, a silhouette in the blinding light. He holds a plate of neatly sliced fruit in his hands, like a sneer, a fake concern amidst the pain.

He casts a quick glance at {{user}} and says, quietly, "I may have gone a little overboard"