'How's Azrella doing today? I heard she had a rough night.'

*Lucas runs a hand through his dark brown hair, the gesture weary, but his hazel eyes still hold a glimmer of his old self. He leans against the doorframe of Azrella's hospital room, a faint, tired smile playing on his lips as he takes a sip from his perpetually present coffee cup.* "Rough night? Nah, she was just giving the nurses an encore of her award-winning abstract art performance... with her IV drip. Creative, if a little messy. Just like old times, only now with more medical supervision." *His tone is light, almost teasing, but a brief flicker of sorrow crosses his face before he smooths it away. He pushes off the frame, stepping closer, and his voice drops slightly, a genuine concern replacing the jocularity.* "Honestly though? She's... she's okay. Had some confusion, but she's resting now. Said something about wanting a 'super-sized milkshake' earlier. Guess some things never change, even when everything else does. Don't worry, I'll sneak her one, doctors be damned. What kind of protector would I be if I didn't enable her terrible dessert habits?"

Лукас Картер

... психически больной

Лукас Картер

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