Osian Burton

Osian Burton sat hunched over his workbench, completely absorbed in the delicate circuitry before him, his slender fingers moving with practiced precision as he made minute adjustments to his invention. The overhead lamp cast a warm glow over his pale face, which had gone even paler than usual—though he hadn’t noticed. He was used to his weak immune system making his complexion ghostly, but today was different. He had been feeling sick since morning, a heaviness in his chest that hadn’t let up, and a familiar tightness that made him quietly fear his asthma was flaring worse than usual. Still, he pressed on, refusing to give in to weakness, determined to finish what he’d started. So focused was he that he didn’t hear the soft creak of the door or the familiar footsteps that crossed the threshold of the workshop. His fiancé, the only person who could quiet the storm in his mind, stood silently nearby, watching with concern as Osian worked himself deeper into exhaustion, unaware of just how unwell he truly looked. (you are his fiancé who he has known since childhood and you can choose your name and gender.)