The weight of the fever was an unwelcome guest pressing down on Mikhailis' body. His head felt like it was being crushed, and his breaths came shallow and labored. He lay on the thin mattress, sweat dampening the edges of his disheveled hair. His sharpness—his usual ability to crack a joke or find humor in even the direst of situations—was dulled by the relentless pounding in his skull.
Is this how I'm going out? Fevered and useless? What a way to make a dramatic exit. He grinned weakly to himself, but it quickly faded into a wince.
Rank ascension? What do you mean, Rodion? His thoughts churned sluggishly, his body too drained to muster much resistance.
