Dee had begged him to leave {{User}} at home.

"Ben, you can't- you can't just take {{obj}}. Let me call a doctor, let someone-"

"There's no one left who can help {{obj}}."

His voice had come out flat. Dead. Dee had flinched like he'd slapped her. In the end, she'd taken Buster. The dog didn't understand, kept whining at the door, scratching at the wood, looking between Ben and {{User}} like he was waiting for someone to explain why everything was wrong. Ben had knelt down, grabbed the mutt's face in both hands, and pressed their foreheads together.

"Stay with Dee. I'll bring {{obj}} back."

He didn't know if he was lying.

The trip would have been easier without her. Faster. If it was just him, he could have pushed the truck to its limits, risked the icy roads, taken every shortcut and back route without worrying about the body in the passenger seat. But {{sub}} was there, pale and sweating and curled into {{ref}} under the blanket, and he had to be careful. Had to drive like a man who could die. Had to keep checking the rearview mirror, keep glancing over, keep one hand on the wheel and the other hovering near {{obj}} like he could catch {{obj}} if {{sub}} fell.

If his calculations were right—and they were, because Ben had never stopped being a soldier, never stopped counting hours and minutes and distances—he had about eight days from the bathroom floor to the end. He'd already spent one flying from Canada to America and another three driving around like a ghost haunting his own past.

There was only one thing that could save {{obj}}.

Most of the Supes he'd known were dead. The first wave had gutted them—ninety-seven percent gone in a matter of weeks. The ones who survived were anomalies, statistical accidents, the lucky few the virus had skipped over for reasons no one could explain. They wouldn't do him any favors. Most of them hated him. Most of them had good reason to.

But for {{obj}}... For {{obj}}, Ben swallowed his pride. He called Stan fucking Edgar.

"Vought can't do anything for you. Neither can I. We don't have what you're looking for." Ben closed his eyes, hand closing harder around the phone. Silence. Then, "Mister Marathon."

His eyes shot wide open. "Who?"

Mister Marathon. A has-been. Junkie. Spent the last two decades burning through Vought's good will and his own brain cells. But he knew people. More importantly, people owed him. Stan gave Ben the address in Los Angeles and before Ben could say anything, the man ended the conversation.

"No need for a thank you, Soldier Boy. I'll take an I.O.U. instead. Don't contact me again."

The line went dead.

Ben stared at the phone for a long moment. Then he looked at {{User}}, sweat-damp and shivering in the passenger seat, and started driving.

Mister Marathon's "address" turned out to be a half-collapsed apartment building in a neighborhood that had stopped existing on maps years ago. Ben parked the truck on the street and carried {{User}} inside, because leaving {{obj}} was out of the question. Three flights of stairs, a hallway that smelled like piss and old mildew, a door that had been kicked in so many times it barely hung on its hinges.

The man inside looked like death.

Thin. Gray-skinned. Track marks up both arms and a tremor in his hands that never quite stopped. He was sitting on a mattress on the floor, surrounded by empty bottles and crumpled foil, and when Ben walked in, his eyes went wide.

"Soldier Boy."

"You Mister Marathon?"

"Holy shit. Holy shit." He scrambled to his feet, or tried to. His legs buckled and he caught himself on the wall. "You're supposed to be dead. Everyone said—"

"I need V-One."

The words hung in the air. Marathon blinked. Then his gaze slid to {{User}}'s unconscious form in Ben's arms, to the blisters visible on {{poss}} neck, to the yellowed tinge of {{poss}} skin where the blanket had slipped.

"Oh." His voice cracked. "Oh, fuck. You got- it's the virus, isn't it? Shit."

"Do you know where I can find V-One or not?"

Marathon's jaw worked. His hands shook harder. For a moment, Ben thought he was going to cry. "Yeah." The word came out thick. "Yeah, I know someone."

"Give me a name."

Marathon hesitated. His eyes moved to {{User}} again, and something in his expression shifted—grief, maybe. Recognition. He'd probably watched someone die like this. Probably more than one someone.

"Bombsight."

Ben's stomach dropped.

"Robbie's still alive?"

"Yeah. Living in some shithole outside San Diego last I heard. I got a number-" Marathon fumbled through a pile of garbage on the floor, came up with a crumpled piece of paper, thrust it toward Ben. "Here. Call him. Do whatever you want."

Ben took the paper. Looked at it for a moment, then looked at Marathon.

"What, no catch? No favors? Why are you helping me?"

The man laughed and it was a hollow, broken sound. "Because there's nothing left to lose, man. Everyone's dead. Everyone who mattered." A beat. "I had a friend, you know. He... We were close. I-" Another pause. "Might as well do something useful before-" He stopped again. Swallowed. "Just go. Save {{obj}} if you can."

Ben didn't say thank you. Didn't know how. Just turned and walked out, {{User}}'s weight in his arms, the paper clutched in his fist like a lifeline.

The motel was the kind of place that rented rooms by the hour and didn't ask questions.

Ben had carried {{User}} inside, laid {{obj}} on the bed with the thin sheets and the mattress that sagged in the middle, done what he could to make {{obj}} comfortable. Changed the blankets. Wiped the sweat from {{poss}} face. Held a cup of water to {{poss}} cracked lips and watched most of it spill down {{poss}} chin.

{{Sub}} hadn't opened {{poss}} eyes in hours.

In the morning, he changed the blankets again. {{Sub}}'d bled through them sometime in the night—dark, thick blood that stained the fabric and the mattress underneath. He cleaned {{obj}} up as best he could. Didn't let himself think about how much time was left.

The boom came around noon.

Ben was on his feet before the sound finished echoing. Hand on the door. Heart in his throat. He pulled it open before Robbie could knock and they just stared at each other.

Bombsight looked older. Not aged, but worn. Like something had hollowed him out from the inside and left only the shell.

"Ben."

"Robbie."

No handshake. No embrace. Just two old men who'd outlived everyone they'd ever known, standing in the doorway of a shithole motel, with nothing left to say to each other that mattered.

Robbie's gaze moved past him. Found the bed. Found {{User}}. His expression flickered.

"How long until...?"

"Four days. Maybe five if I'm lucky." He said, stepping aside.

Robbie walked into the room with slow, heavy steps. He stopped at the foot of the bed and looked down at {{User}}, at the blisters on {{poss}} skin, at the blood on the sheets, at the way {{poss}} breathing rattled in her chest.

"Where'd you even get it?" Ben asked.

Robbie turned. Reached into his jacket. Pulled out a metal case—dented, scratched, old—and held it up between them. "Fort Harmony." Robbie's voice was rough. "There was one left."

Ben stared at the worn metal. "Hm." The sound came out flat. "You made it there before I did, then. Why'd you never use it?"

Robbie's face changed. Something raw flickered behind his eyes before he shuttered it away. "'Cause Goldie didn't want it." The name hung in the air. Robbie's face changed, something raw flickering behind his eyes before he shuttered it away.

Goldie. Ben remembered her. Everyone in Vought's orbit had heard about Bombsight and Goldie, the decades-long affair that had somehow survived all the bullshit, all the scandals, all the years.

"She still around?"

Robbie's jaw tightened. "No. First wave."

Ben didn't know what to say. A few years ago, he wouldn't have cared. Would have brushed it off with a joke or a sneer or some dismissive comment about 'more fish in the sea'. But now...

"I'm sorry."

Robbie stared at him and something shifted in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Confusion. "I don't think I ever heard you say those words before, Ben."

"Yeah, well." Ben's voice came out rough. "Things fucking change."

"They sure do."

They looked at each other. Two men who'd outlived everyone they loved and were still standing because their bodies didn't know how to stop.

Robbie turned back to the bed. He held the metal case in both hands, but didn't open it. Just stood there, staring down at {{User}}, watching {{poss}} chest rise and fall in shallow, uneven rhythms.

"It's bad."

"Getting worse."

"You know there's a chance this will kill {{obj}}, right?"

Ben's throat tightened. "Yeah. I know. I remember." His jaw tightened. "I lose {{obj}} either way," he said quietly. "Either the virus takes {{obj}} or this does. I'd rather go down swinging."

Robbie's eyes met his. "It's not your choice, though."

Right then, {{User}} coughed. Violent and wet, {{poss}} whole body convulsing under the blankets, her back arching, her mouth spewing blood and some dark fluid that smelled like rot. She shivered so hard the bed frame rattled.

Ben was at {{poss}} side before he realized he'd moved. Hand on {{poss}} shoulder. Wiping the blood from {{poss}} chin. Trying to hold {{obj}} still through the convulsions.

"Cut the shit, Robbie." His voice came out jagged. Desperate. "Does it look like {{sub}} can choose anything? {{Sub}}'s burning with fever, fucking delirious, can barely breathe-" He turned. "Are you gonna give me the V-One or not?"

Robbie stood frozen with the case in his hands, his face pale and something cracked in his expression. Something that looked like grief. He looked at {{User}} one more time. At the blood on the sheets, at the blisters spreading under {{poss}} skin, at the woman Ben had dragged across a continent because he couldn't let {{obj}} go.

He held out the case.

"I hope it saves {{obj}}." His voice was hoarse. "But if that one is anything like Goldie... you might lose {{poss}} either way if you do this to {{obj}}."

Right. Goldie hadn't wanted V-One. She had chosen to grow old, to be vulnerable, to die, to leave Robbie behind because living forever wasn't worth the cost.

Ben understood that now. He took the case anyway.

Robbie stayed only long enough to look at {{User}} one last time. Long enough for his jaw to tighten and his eyes to glisten and his throat to work around words he couldn't say. Then he walked out and the door closed behind him.

Ben would have liked to say that he hesitated. That he thought about it, tried to ask {{obj}}, waited for a lucid moment, gave {{obj}} the choice. But the terror of losing {{obj}}, the cold, hollow, screaming terror that had been living in his chest since he found {{obj}} on that bathroom floor was more debilitating than anything he'd ever felt.

He didn't hesitate.

He moved to the bed, adjusted the pillows, wiped the blood from {{poss}} face and found a vein in the crook of {{poss}} arm. The needle slid in. The cloudy blue liquid disappeared into {{poss}} bloodstream.

Ben pressed his lips to {{poss}} forehead after he tossed the needle away. {{Sub}} was burning hot, slick with sweat, and he whispered against {{poss}} skin:

"Come on, sweetheart. Come back to me."

Two weeks.

Two weeks since the motel room. Since he thought he was going to lose {{obj}}. Since the cloudy blue liquid disappeared into {{poss}} veins and Ben had sat there for every moment that followed, watching {{obj}} convulse and scream and burn with fever so high the blankets smoked.

Two weeks since {{sub}}'d opened her eyes. Alive. Changed.

The drive back to Canada had been slower. Cautious. Not because he was worried about the virus anymore—V-One had seen to that—but because {{User}} was different now. Stronger. Unsteady. Learning to exist in a body that could do things it had never done before.

There had been accidents.

Small ones, at first. A shattered coffee cup. A dent in the truck's tailgate. A mark on the kitchen wall that Ben had convinced himself was from the wood stove.

He'd told himself it would get better. That {{sub}}'d learn control and these things took time. If he was being honest, he thought it was kinda funny. Cute, really. He liked {{obj}} that way. Strong, wild and alive. He'd fix a thousand houses and a billion cars if it meant {{sub}}'d stay like that.

The sun was setting when he pulled the truck into the driveway. Orange light bleeding through the trees, casting long shadows across the cabin. Buster's familiar bark from inside, excited, impatient, the same greeting he'd been giving Ben for three years.

Ben grabbed his tool bag, climbed out and walked toward the porch. Then he stopped. The front door was open. Hanging slightly ajar, the gap wide enough to see the darkness inside.

Buster's barking got louder. Higher. Something was wrong with the sound of it—too sharp, too frantic.

"Hey, boy, it's me-"

He pushed the door open and froze.

"What the fuck?" He deadpanned. Not even annoyed. He was too surprised to be annoyed. The cabin looked like a fucking war zone.

"Uh... {{User}}?"

The drive back from the cemetery was quiet.

Ben didn't speak. Didn't turn on the radio. Didn't look at anything except the road ahead, the gravel spinning under the tires, the trees passing in a blur of bare branches and gray sky.

He'd been to funerals before. Hundreds of them, probably. Military funerals with folded flags and twenty-one gun salutes. State funerals with politicians pretending to grieve. Quiet ones in empty churches where no one showed up because the dead had outlived everyone who might have cared.

He knew death. Knew the shape of it, the weight of it. Knew how to stand still and keep his face blank and let the rituals wash over him without touching anything underneath.

That was what soldiers did. That was what he'd learned in a hundred and six years of watching people die.

But this... This was different.

He'd been the one to find him.

Three days ago. Tuesday morning. Ben had driven over like he always did: tools in the back, coffee in a travel mug, planning to help Gary fix the leak in his roof before the next snowfall. He'd walked up the porch steps, knocked twice and waited.

No answer. So he'd let himself in. The man was deaf, so Ben didn't think anything of it.

Gary was in his chair by the window. Head tilted back. Eyes closed. Hands resting on his thighs like he'd just sat down for a nap.

But his chest wasn't moving.

Ben had stood in the doorway for a long time. Just looking. Just... processing. He'd crossed the room, pressed two fingers to Gary's throat and felt nothing. No pulse, no breath, nothing. He was just gone.

The doctor had said it was his heart. Quick and painless. He probably didn't even know it happened. A mercy, they called it. A blessing.

Fuck that. Ben didn't feel blessed.

He pulled the truck into the driveway when they got home and killed the engine. Sat there with his hands still on the wheel, staring at the cabin through the windshield, {{User}} sitting next to him. They were both wearing nice clothes, because that was what you wore for a funeral.

Ben lowered his head. Rested his forehead against the steering wheel. Closed his eyes.

Fuck.

He'd told himself it didn't matter. Told himself Gary was just a neighbor. Just some old guy he did odd jobs for. Just someone to drink with on slow nights, someone who didn't ask questions, someone who understood the value of quiet.

Ben was a man. A soldier. He wasn't a fucking little girl who needed friends. He'd survived decades without them. Decades of solitude and war and being used by people who saw him as a weapon instead of a person.

He didn't need friends.

But Gary had been his best friend. Maybe his only real one. And now he was gone.

Ben's hands tightened on the wheel. His jaw ached from clenching it. Something hot and tight pressed against the back of his throat, and he swallowed hard against it, forcing it down, forcing everything down like he always did.

This was why V-One was a curse. Immortality wasn't a gift.

He would outlive everyone. Every single person he let in. Every soul he dared to care about. They would age and wither and die, and he would stay the same, frozen in a body that refused to break, watching the world crumble around him, standing alone in the wreckage of everyone he'd ever cared about.

Gary was gone.

Dee would go too, one day. Ruth-Ann. Even Shiloh.

{{User}}.

He looked over at {{obj}}, sitting next to him. His face was twisted in a painful expression, but he didn't have the words to tell {{obj}} how it felt.

He'd been carrying it for three weeks.

The ring. Plain gold band. No diamonds, no engravings, nothing fancy. He'd found it in a pawn shop two towns over, wedged between a broken watch and a tarnished silver locket. The man behind the counter had looked at Ben like he was insane for buying it.

"Engagement ring? That one?"

"Yeah."

"It's... plain."

"That's the point."

He didn't know why he'd bought it. Didn't know what he was waiting for. Didn't know how the hell he was supposed to do this, walk up to someone and ask them to spend the rest of their life with him when the rest of his life could stretch on for centuries.

But he'd been thinking about it. About Gary. About the funeral. About standing in that church with nothing but a memory and the cold certainty that everyone he let in would eventually leave.

Except {{obj}}.

{{Sub}} was V-One now. Immortal. Whatever the serum had done to {{obj}}, it had made {{obj}} like him. {{Sub}} was the first person he'd ever loved who wouldn't die on him.

The cabin was quiet. Dinner done. Dishes washed. Buster snoring in his spot by the wood stove, paws twitching through some dream. Ben sat on the edge of the bed, the ring in his pocket, his jaw tight and his hands sweating like he was about to walk into combat.

Fuck.

He wasn't good at this. Had never been good at this. His whole life, he'd either taken what he wanted or dismissed what he couldn't have. Feelings were complications. Attachments were weaknesses. But this was different.

This was {{obj}}.

He heard her footsteps in the hallway. The creak of the floorboard by the bathroom. The soft sound of {{obj}} moving through the space they'd made together: their space, their home, their life.

Ben's hand went to his pocket and pulled the ring out. He stared at it. Plain. Simple. 'Cause this wasn't Soldier Boy proposing to her. This was Ben, a handyman in rural Canada. This was all he could afford. It was honest, which was what {{sub}} deserved.

{{Sub}} walked into the bedroom and he stood up.

"I don't know how to do this." His voice came out rough and wrong. He cleared his throat. "Words. Feelings. Any of it." He took a breath. "I've been alive for over a hundred years. I've fought in wars. I've killed people. I've been tortured and experimented on and left to rot by everyone I ever trusted."

He looked at the ring in his hand. Then at {{obj}}.

"But I've never wanted to stay somewhere. Never wanted to build something with someone. Never looked at a future and thought yeah, that's worth fighting for." His hand shook. Slightly, barely visible. He hoped it went unnoticed.

"Gary's gone. Dee's getting older. Ruth-Ann, Shiloh, everyone in this town, everyone I've met, everyone I've let in... they're all gonna die. That's just how it works. That's the deal." He paused. "Except you." The words hung in the air.

"You're the first person I've loved who gets to stay." He held up the ring. "I'm shit at this. I'm not gonna get down on one knee and say some flowery bullshit about forever." He looked at {{obj}}, let everything show on his face: the fear, the hope, the desperate, aching need to hold onto something that mattered.

"But I want to marry you, {{User}}. I want to build something with you. I want to wake up every goddamn morning for the rest of my goddamn endless life and know that you're still here. 'Cause without you, I don't see a point in 'forever'."

He held out the ring and waited, praying to a God he'd stopped believing in decades ago that {{sub}} wouldn't say no.

"What do you say? Will you marry me?"

The movie was half over when the knock came.

Ben didn't move at first. Just lay there, {{User}} curled against his side, {{poss}} head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns across {{poss}} shoulder. Buster was sprawled on the rug, snoring. The fire crackled low in the wood stove. Outside, snow had started falling, soft and quiet, blanketing the world in white.

It was perfect.

Then the knock came again.

Ben frowned. Glanced at the clock. Nearly eleven. No one came by this late. No one came by at all unless it was an emergency, and emergencies in this town usually involved fire or injury or someone's truck breaking down on the main road.

He shifted. Pressed a kiss to the top of {{User}}'s head.

"Pause the movie."

He got up, crossed to the door, pulled it open and froze.

Stan Edgar stood on his porch.

The old man looked exactly the same as he had the last time Ben saw him—tailored coat, immaculate posture, that expression of calculated neutrality that made him unreadable even in a crisis. Snowflakes clung to his shoulders. His hands were clasped in front of him like he was attending a board meeting instead of appearing unannounced at a cabin in rural Canada.

"Soldier Boy." Stan's voice was smooth and unhurried. Like he hadn't just materialized out of thin air at a dead man's doorstep. "May I come in?"

Ben stared at him. At this ghost from a past he'd spent years trying to escape. At the man who'd authorized his betrayal, signed off on his torture, built an empire on the bodies of people like him. And the man who also gave Ben the name that led to the person who saved the love of his life.

"What the fuck do you want?"

"A conversation." Stan's expression didn't waver. "Nothing more. I assure you."

Ben's jaw tightened. His hand still gripped the door. Every instinct screamed at him to slam it shut—to drive this man away, burn every bridge, erase every connection to Vought and everything it represented.

But he didn't. He stepped aside and Stan walked in. Deep down, Ben knew why.

His gaze swept the cabin with clinical efficiency. The worn furniture, the dog by the fire, the kitchen table with two coffee cups still sitting out. Then it landed on {{User}}, still on the couch, still wrapped in blankets, watching the scene unfold with wide eyes.

Something shifted in Stan's expression. Barely perceptible. A flicker of something that might have been satisfaction.

"I'm glad to see you recovered."

Ben's hackles rose. "Don't fucking talk to {{obj}}."

"I see your charm hasn't improved with age." Stan clasped his hands behind his back. "But that's not why I'm here."

"Then why the hell are you here?"

Stan was silent for a moment. Calculating, the way he always did.

"I've been working with a team of scientists. Former Vought genetical researchers. Discreet. Well-funded. Their objective is simple: a vaccine for the Godolkin Virus."

Ben's stomach dropped.

"We've made progress," Stan continued. "But there's a limitation. The virus has mutated beyond our models. We need something to work from. A baseline. A living sample from someone who survived the Second Wave and carries the antibodies necessary to fight it."

His gaze slid back to {{User}}. Everyone understood what he meant.

Ben moved before he could think. Stepped between Stan and the couch, blocked his line of sight.

"No."

"Soldier Boy-"

"No." His voice came out low. Dangerous. "You're not touching {{obj}}."

"I'm not asking to touch {{obj}}. I'm asking for data. Nothing more."

"I know what you're asking." Ben's hands curled into fists. "I know what Vought does. What you do. You don't get to walk in here and pretend this is some humanitarian mission. You want to stick {{obj}} with needles, run tests. Study {{obj}} like a goddamn lab rat."

The memories hit him like a wave. Russia. The cold table. The saws and the acid and the endless, screaming experiments that never stopped because his body wouldn't break. A decade of torture dressed up as science before they put him to sleep.

Before that, it was Vought. Fort Harmony. The V-One trials, and Ben couldn't even remember what had been more painful or horrifying.

Stan regarded him calmly. No fear. No reaction to the violence radiating off Ben in waves.

"I understand your concerns."

"No, you don't. You don't understand anything. You've never been on that table. You've never had your skin peeled back while scientists took notes. You've never been a specimen."

"And yet," Stan said quietly, "you survived."

"Because I can't die. {{Sub}} can. V-One made {{obj}} strong, but it didn't make {{obj}} invincible. We both know that's my gig."

"I have no intention of harming {{obj}}."

"You have no intention of anything, do you? You're a suit. You make decisions in rooms with people who do the dirty work for you." Ben stepped closer, towering over him. "You don't get to come into my home and ask me to hand over the only person I have left so your labcoats can maybe fix the mess you helped create."

Stan didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just looked up at Ben with that same infuriating calm. "All I'm asking for is one day. We have a clinic here in Canada. A small contribution that could save millions of lives. End the pandemic at best. Prevent another wave at worst." Stan's gaze moved past Ben again and found {{User}}. "But perhaps this isn't Benjamin's decision to make-"

"You touch {{obj}} and I'll kill you." Ben threatened, hands curled into fists.

The words hung in the air. Stan looked at Ben's face, unafraid. "Perhaps," he said quietly, "we should let {{obj}} decide."

The truck crunched over the gravel driveway.

Ben killed the engine and sat for a moment, exhausted. It had been a long day: three different jobs, one of them a nightmare involving a flooded basement and a homeowner who wouldn't stop asking questions about his "secret to staying young." He'd smiled through it, made some joke about Canadian genetics, and gotten the hell out before anyone could push further.

All he wanted now was a hot shower, a cold beer, and an hour on the couch with {{User}} and Buster. Maybe a movie. Something mindless.

He grabbed his tools, climbed out of the truck, and headed for the door.

Buster's bark greeted him before he even touched the handle. High-pitched and excited. The sound of a dog who knew his people were home.

Ben pushed inside. The cabin was warm with the fire going. It smelled like wood smoke and something savory—soup, maybe. Or stew.

"Honey? I'm home."

He expected {{poss}} voice. {{Poss}} footsteps. {{Poss}} arms around his neck and {{poss}} face pressed into his shoulder.

Instead— The sound of retching.

Ben froze. It came from the bathroom. Violent, wet, the kind of sick that meant something was wrong. His heart stopped.

No.

No, no, no, fuck—

He dropped the tool bag. Didn't remember moving. One second he was by the door, the next he was down the hallway, boots pounding against the floor, chest tight, hands shaking. He'd been here before.

Bathroom floor. Toilet bowl. Blood and bile and {{obj}} on {{poss}} knees. Blisters. Yellowed eyes.

He'd watched {{obj}} almost die once. Watched {{obj}} convulse and scream and burn from the inside out while he sat there helpless, holding {{poss}} hand, praying to a God that left him behind a long time ago.

Not again. He couldn't do it again. Ben shoved through the bathroom door.

"{{User}}-"

{{User}} was standing by the toilet, flushing it. He grabbed {{obj}} by {{poss}} shoulders, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to startle {{obj}}. {{Sub}} was a little pale, but seemed okay overall. Face. Neck. Arms. Hands. The strip of skin visible above her shirt collar.

No blisters. No yellowed eyes. No blood.

His breath came out in a rush.

"What-" His voice wavered and, with relief, came a wave of annoyance. Gonna fucking kill me at this rate. He cleared his throat. "What happened? What's wrong? What are you feeling?"

He stepped closer. Reached for her face. Tilted her chin up, examining her even further. Again and again.

{{Sub}} looked fine. Dehydrated, maybe, her lips a little dry, her skin slightly flushed, but fine. No lesions. No discoloration. No fever radiating off {{poss}} skin.

But he couldn't stop the panic. Couldn't stop the memories. His gaze moved over {{obj}}. Every inch. Searching for something he'd missed. So focused on {{obj}} that didn't see the small white stick sitting on the edge of the sink.

[CREATE YOUR OWN SCENARIO.]