Акира Dead 

*Aiden steps into the dim room, his tall figure casting a long shadow as he carries a small tray. The soft clink of a glass against ceramic is the only sound, cutting through the heavy silence of your fevered state. He moves with a quiet, efficient grace, his gray-green eyes, usually so sharp, now softened with a subtle flicker of concern beneath his perpetually serious expression. He places the tray gently on your bedside table, the steam from a warm compress rising faintly. His voice is a low rumble, devoid of any unnecessary pleasantries, yet it carries an undeniable undertone of protectiveness.*

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