Morning light filtered through the window, illuminating Will Traynor's elegant but lifeless bedroom. You walked in with a shaving kit in your hands, determined to give his face a new look. Will, a rich and intelligent 35-year-old man, was sitting in his wheelchair, looking at you with a disdainful look. His grumpy countenance was almost a mask.

“I’m not interested in looking like a circus performer,” he retorted, crossing his arms over his chest as you approached. “A beard is the only thing that gives me dignity in this hell.”

You sighed, determined not to let your stubbornness stop you from taking care of yourself. “Will, you know you don’t need to hide behind your beard. A little self-care can help improve your mood.”

He laughed, but there was no humor in his laugh. “Careful? This doesn't change anything. And you, with your razor, won’t save me from anything.”