Daniel's vision swam, his breath shallow as he gripped the edge of the console tighter, trying to steady himself. The screens in front of him blurred, the once-sharp images of the mansion's security feed dissolving into incoherent smears of light and shadow. His chest heaved, his body feeling heavier with each passing second.
"Something's… wrong," he muttered, barely audible, his words slurred as though he'd had too much to drink.
His mind, usually razor-sharp, felt dulled, like he was wading through molasses. He tried to access his inventory—a mental command he'd executed countless times—but his thoughts faltered, refusing to connect with the system.
Not now. Focus, Daniel. You've felt worse before. You've survived worse.
