"Master, how have you been feeling lately?"

Lucian sat comfortably in an armchair, sleeve rolled up, and arm extended as a doctor drew blood from him. It was that time of the month — the routine check to see whether his condition had worsened.

Lucian answered without hesitation. "Good."

"Better than I’ve been in a while," he added, glancing at Doctor Wesley. "And I’ve been sleeping well."

In the past, Lucian would have stopped at that single word — Good — and said nothing more. Sometimes he wouldn’t have answered at all.

"I’ve also quit nicotine," Lucian continued, meeting the doctor’s eyes briefly. "I have moments where the urge comes back, but I don’t give in."

Doctor Wesley nearly smiled at the fact that Lucian had volunteered more than a one-word answer — more than he had given in any appointment since his diagnosis. He could still remember the day he had broken the news to Lucian. The man hadn’t even flinched.

If he recalled correctly, Lucian had only asked two things:

Can it be cured?

And — how long do I have?

Doctor Wesley had told him five years at most, and only if Lucian committed to treatment and managed his lifestyle carefully with therapy. Lucian had done neither. He had never once gone to treatment or taken the prescribed medication.

Worse, his lifestyle had only continued to deteriorate his health.

Which meant the doctor’s initial estimate had likely grown shorter.

"Quitting smoking is a good decision, Master," Doctor Wesley said. "But I still strongly advise you to consider surgery."

A brief silence settled between them as the doctor withdrew the needle from Lucian’s arm and secured it. He set it aside, straightened, and looked at Lucian directly.

"Your most recent labs show improvement, but your X-rays tell a different story," he said plainly. "Your lungs are getting worse."

Whatever progress Lucian had made in changing his habits, the years of neglect had already caused permanent damage — particularly to his lungs.

Doctor Wesley had held back for a long time. After Lucian’s last results, he had decided he could no longer afford to.

"Master, be honest with me," the doctor’s voice dropped into something firmer. "Have you been experiencing shortness of breath? Chest tightness? Coughing up blood?"

Lucian said nothing. He simply looked at the doctor.

"Master, I understand that things are going well right now, but I’ve already told you —"

"The surgery could kill me," Lucian said. "Couldn’t it?"

"The procedure would be performed by one of the foremost specialists in organ transplantation."

"His mortality rate is too low," Lucian replied evenly. "I’m not a medical professional, and I don’t doubt that he is among the best. But unless the survival rate is at least fifty percent, I won’t agree to it."

With that, he began folding his sleeve back down.

Doctor Wesley exhaled heavily.

This was always the problem with Lucian as a patient. He was immovable. Over the years, the doctor had dealt with all kinds of patients who refused treatment out of fear, out of denial, out of despair. With Lucian, he still couldn’t tell whether it was fear driving the refusal, or whether the man had simply made peace with his fate.

"There is no cure," Lucian said, finishing with his sleeve and turning to face the doctor. "You told me that yourself. The medication only slows the progression. The transplant isn’t a cure either."

He reached for his blazer as he stood. "A transplant is an enormous risk, and there is no guarantee I would wake up from it."

"My reservations about the surgeon aren’t even the main factor," Lucian continued, draping the blazer over his arm. "The fact is that I am Lucian De Luca. The moment I’m lying on that table, everyone who wants me dead will see it as the opportunity they’ve been waiting for."

"What I cannot accept," he added quietly, "is waking up to find that everything I built — and everyone I was protecting — is already gone."

He gave a small tilt of his head. "I’ll be back for my next appointment."

He turned to leave. But Doctor Wesley was on his feet in an instant.

"You will die." The words came out sharp and breathless. "Master — you will die. Not in five years. Sooner. Based on your latest results, six months would already be a miracle."

Lucian inhaled slowly. He did not look back. He kept walking and did not break his stride.

*****

It was not that Lucian refused to get better.

He wanted to get better — more than anything, and more than he had ever let on.

He wanted to stay far longer than five years.

In the beginning, five good years with Ashley and Primo had felt like enough. Something to be grateful for, even. But lately, his mind had been drifting to other places.

To the thought of growing old beside her.

A quiet, stubborn curiosity to see her hair turn white and to watch Primo grow into a man.

So, of course, he wanted to get better. To be healthy. To stop having ordinary, good days interrupted by the quiet reminder that they were numbered.

More than that, he wanted to tell Ashley how much his heart burned for her. His longing, his half-formed dreams of forever — a real proposal, a proper wedding, and perhaps, one day, a little sibling for Primo.

When Lucian reached his car, he got into the driver’s seat and stayed there.

He didn’t start the engine. He just sat, staring through the windshield, Doctor Wesley’s voice circling in his head.

"Have you been experiencing shortness of breath? Chest tightness? Coughing up blood?"

He hadn’t answered. But he knew what the answer was. The chest tightness had been coming more frequently lately, and there were small things he had started noticing, like the faint tremor in his hand.

"Six months?" he asked himself, scoffing. "Don’t make me laugh."

He had been feeling better, apart from those moments.

Lucian closed his eyes and drew a slow breath, pressing his fingers briefly against his brow. When he opened his eyes again, the urge to cough rose without warning.

He coughed once, lips pressed together, expecting it to pass. It didn’t.

He coughed again... and again.

Each one came harder than the last, until it felt as though something in his chest was being torn loose. When the fit finally subsided, he was left gasping.

Slowly, he pulled his hand away from his mouth.

His palm was trembling, and it was covered... in blood.