Dr. Basil Renfield stepped quietly into Theo Kingsley's bedroom, the air heavy with the scent of antiseptic and faint cologne. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting thin beams of light cut across the bed where Theo lay pale and sweating. His chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm, his breathing audible with every second exhale.
Basil stood at the bedside, his gloved fingers hovering over Theo's wrist before checking the pulse. It was weak but steady—steady enough that the decline in strength couldn't be explained by any illness he knew.
Theo stirred faintly.
"Doctor… morning…"
Basil gave a perfunctory nod.
"Morning, Mr. Kingsley. How are you feeling?"
"Still… sore. Breathing hurts."
Basil frowned. The same as yesterday. And the day before that yet his vitals were inconsistent—his blood pressure fluctuated and muscle tension peaked without reason.
He looked over the rest of Theo's body with practiced detachment.
