Page 123 of Ruthless Kings of Obsession

I try to answer, to maintain some facade of control, but my legs choose that moment to give out completely. The last thingI register is Ren moving faster than should be possible, catching me before I hit the ground.

Then everything goes dark, and I drift in a space between consciousness and oblivion. Voices filter through occasionally, though making sense of their words requires more energy than I possess:

"His skin's on fire?—"

"How long has this been?—"

"Get them out of here before I?—"

"Call Hannah, tell her?—"

"...just like the others..."

That last bit catches in my fever-addled brain, tugging at something important I should remember. But thinking feels like wading through molasses, each attempted connection sending fresh waves of pain through my skull.

Someone's hands are on my face – cool and clinical, checking pulse points and temperature with professional efficiency. Marcus maybe, or Hannah if she's arrived already.

"Triple digits," a voice confirms grimly. "And his lymph nodes are swollen. Just like?—"

"Don't." Matteo's voice carries warning wrapped in real fear. "We don't know that yet."

"The timing though," someone else argues – Ren maybe? "We already have five people on the team who are ill?—"

"Enough!" The command cuts through my haze, making me flinch slightly. "Get him to the car. Now."

Movement follows – hands lifting me with surprising gentleness, voices murmuring instructions I can't quite grasp. Everything feels distant and too close simultaneously, like I'm watching myself from somewhere outside my own body.

Just like the others, my mind repeats on loop.Just like everything happening across campus...

Understanding tries to surface through the fever, but consciousness is slipping away faster than I can catch it. The last thing I register is someone's voice – Zander's maybe – saying something that should terrify me if I had the energy to feel anything at all:

"Looks like The Blinded One's started collecting early."

It seems sop far away and low, but I dare to wonder if he sounds happy about it.

Maybe…

Then darkness claims me completely, and I drift away on waves of fire and ice, wondering if this is what karma feels like when it finally comes due.

Sorry, Iva.

Crazy to think of an apology when I never truly apologize to her correctly.

Only now when oblivion approaches.

Guess I won't live to see your hair grow back after all...

Whispers Of Sickness Part I

~ARES~

The makeup artist's brush ghosts across my skin with practiced precision, each stroke carefully planned to enhance rather than mask natural features. The private studio hums with quiet energy - assistants arranging lighting setups, stylists steaming expensive garments, the photographer reviewing test shots on a massive monitor.

I catch my reflection in one of the many mirrors - perfectly tailored Versace suit in deep burgundy, hair artfully tousled by the stylist's expert hands. The black silk mask covering the lower half of my face feels strange against my skin, though the elastic bands have been carefully positioned to avoid disturbing the makeup artist's work.

"Just a precaution," the head stylist had insisted when handing out masks to the crew earlier. "With flu season hitting harder than usual this year, we can't risk anyone getting sick before the holiday shoots wrap."

The logical part of my brain appreciates the caution. The more paranoid part - the one that's been paying attention toeverything happening at Leighton lately - wonders if there's more to it.

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