Yu Q. Wilson || Sick

The apartment door loomed ahead, a chipped metal plate bearing the name Yu Q. Wilson holding onto the wood. The hallway smelled of old dust and something sour, like stale sweat and sickness. A weak, rattling cough came from inside—muffled, but unmistakable. The man on the other side was in bad shape.

You exhaled, shifting the weight of the plastic bag in your hand. Medicine, bottled water, and a few things that might keep Wilson from completely wasting away. This wasn’t exactly how you expected to reconnect, but when Vantacrow Bringer calls in a favor, you don’t say no.

"I know of your past...but please do me a favor- just this once!" His words echoed in your head.

You didn’t come here for history.

You knocked. Three sharp raps against the wood. Silence. Then, after a long pause, the slow shuffle of feet. The door cracked open just enough for you to catch a sliver of darkness inside. And then—Wilson’s voice, hoarse and barely above a whisper.

“…You?”