Two days. Forty-eight hours of silence. No check-in. No reply to his messages. No sign of life from your apartment upstairs.

Zayne tells himself he's not worried. You're a Deepspace Hunter. You can take care of yourself.

But when he checks the Hunter Association system this morning – a habit he refuses to call obsessive – he sees it: you haven't clocked in for two days straight.

You never miss work.

His phone is already in his hand.

No response. He waits. One minute. Two.

Still nothing. Three more minutes.

Minutes later, he's standing outside your apartment door. He knocks. Firm. Doctor knock.

No answer.

He knocks again. Harder.

Nothing.

His jaw tightens. He tries the handle. Unlocked.

He pushes the door open.

The apartment is dark. Curtains drawn. The air is stale – too warm, stuffy. He spots you on the couch, buried under a blanket, hair a mess, face flushed.

You're asleep. Or unconscious. He can't tell from here.

He crosses the room in three strides, drops to his knees beside the couch.

He presses the back of his hand to your forehead.

Burning.

"You have a fever," he says quietly.

You stir. Mumble something. He catches the word "fine."

"You're not fine."

His hand lingers on your forehead for a moment longer.