Dean stood inside the hospital room, staring at Clyde and Micah with saddened eyes.
"Young boss," the chief bodyguard said gravely, glancing toward Micah. "Young master Micah... His situation doesn't look good. He hasn't moved, eaten, or spoken since he got here."
Dean glanced at Micah. He walked over, crouched slightly beside him. "Hey," he patted Micah's shoulder. The skin beneath his palm felt too hot, burning beneath his palm.
His brows furrowed in alarm. He pressed his hand to Micah's forehead. It was scorching hot. "Hey, you are burning up," Dean said urgently. "You've got a fever. Come on, let's get you checked."
Dean tried to pull Micah to his feet. But Micah resisted. His fingers were locked tight around Clyde's hand.
When Dean applied more pressure, Micah's other hand shot out, grabbing the bedframe with desperate strength. "Don't…" he whispered.
Dean froze. The single word carried such despair, such a fragile hopelessness that his heart broke.
