Anastasia dashed to the adjacent doorway, her heart racing, and nearly collided with Logan, who had just been unceremoniously expelled from the room. Accompanying him was a servant clutching a first-aid kit, his complexion pale as death, exhibiting the kind of fear that suggested he had no intention of returning to the fray. Sighing, Anastasia reached out with a determined hand. “Give it to me,” she demanded, her voice steady despite her inner turmoil. Logan’s eyes widened in surprise as he hesitated, his tone laced with concern. “Ma’am, Mr. Lancaster isn’t in the best mood right now.” Her resolve didn’t falter. “I know,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, yet laced with urgency. The very knowledge of his condition sent a raw wave of anxiety through her; she had to get in there. The thought of him alone, plagued by despair, gnawed at her insides. Logan’s gaze shifted, considering for a moment, before he recalled how Harrison had shown her an unexpected kindness in the past. With a reluctant nod, he turned to the servant. “Give it to her.” With that, Anastasia swung the door open and stepped into the dimly lit room. The darkness felt suffocating, but she pressed on, driven by an unshakeable instinct. “Get out!” A voice cut through the air, taut and brimming with fury. It was Harrison—his anger as palpable as the gloom that enveloped him. The feeble light filtering through the window cast an eerie glow on a tall figure hunched in a wheelchair, his back turned to her. He looked utterly defeated, shrouded in a heavy gloom that was far too familiar—an old man trapped in the twilight of life. It twisted her heart bitterly; after all, he was only twenty-seven. Was this the same desolate existence she had known in her previous life? A cycle of despair that she had so desperately sought to escape, failing to recognize the suffering he bore each day? The very thought sent a pang of sorrow through her as she approached him slowly, each step weighted with hesitation. Harrison lashed out once more, his voice a sharp knife against the silence. “I said get—!” Before she could react, he latched onto her wrist with a grip so fierce it felt as if he would crush her bone. A gasp tore itself from her lips, the flash of pain jolting her senses. But the moment he recognized her, his grip slackened, transforming fury into raw intensity. “Out,” he commanded, his voice cool and unyielding. In the dim room, the angular lines of his jaw were stark against the shadows, his profile sharp and defined, but his expression remained obscured. Anger radiated from him like heat from a beckoning flame. “Logan said you weren’t doing well,” she ventured, her voice softening as anxiety steeped into her words. “I was worried about you.” “Worried?” His tone shifted, the edge dulling, as if her presence had nudged something buried deep within him. She could sense his gaze finally settling on her. “Yes,” she replied with determination, crouching down beside him. Her hand gripped the arm of the wheelchair while the other searched for his. As her fingers brushed against his thigh, she felt his muscles tense instantaneously. But the next moment, he seized her hand—a calculated grip, firm enough to prevent her from escaping but gentler than before. “What are you doing?” he asked, confusion woven into his strained voice. A flicker of guilt pricked at her conscience for encroaching, yet she feigned innocence, her heart pounding wildly. “I’m just looking for your hand. It’s too dark in here to see.” “...And why do you need my hand?” Turning her palm over, she wrapped her fingers gently around his wrist, feigning the need for comfort while quietly assessing his pulse. “You’re upset, aren’t you? I just want to comfort you.” His silence was telling, and oddly enough, he didn’t pull away. Moments ticked by, a curious interplay of relief and frustration swirling within her. Relief surfaced—she could help Harrison overcome his affliction. She would ensure that the dire predictions of his demise before thirty never materialized, for she refused to let that fate claim him. Yet frustration clawed at her as well. She lacked the key medicine needed to combat his illness. Months would stretch over her like an unyielding fog before the Green Thumbs Botanical Research Institute would yield what she sought, a legacy her mother had left behind. And there was little she could do—the institute was not under her control; it belonged to her grandfather. Lost in dark thoughts of her grandfather’s legacy, her expression darkened. “Mr. Lancaster? Mrs. Lancaster?” Logan’s hesitant voice echoed through the doorway, a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty, pulling her from her reverie. “What is it?” she called back, her tone resolute and steady. Logan, who had been poised to break down the door in concern, paused, his hand resting above the handle, a wave of bewilderment mingling with relief on his face. They were indeed alright? After a silence that stretched longer than he could bear, it was nothing short of miraculous that Mr. Lancaster was not in a rage. Back in the dimness of the room, Anastasia reluctantly released his hand, concern lacing her voice as she asked softly, “Can I turn on the light and change your bandages?”