[center][h1]Emil Günther[/h1]
Physical state: Sick
Mental state: Unfocused and disoriented[/center]

Emil woke that morning with a sore throat and cough attacks that razed his lungs. His bones felt heavy and his muscles stiff. His skin was so sensitive that he felt he could count every single hair on his head. His aching neck he wouldn't even think about. The wetness and the cold got a hold of him the day before, and now he looked at himself in the mirror, sweaty, hair messed up, darkness under his bloodshot eyes, pallor and dry lips. [color=39b54a][i]Hopefully not pneumonia. Can't afford that now. Ask Sean. Absent. Drinking all night?[/i][/color] He splashed his cadaverous face thrice with cold water and dried it with a towel. In relief, he swallowed a glassful of water, washing down the malign taste of bacteria down into his guts. Licking his cracked lips, he put the glass away, leaving to dress himself.

His red scarf swirled gently behind him in the mild winter air. He had eaten with a colleague yesterday. He thought he'd take his advice and not think about it, the incident, for a day, but he had a troublesome night of nightmares he chalked up to his illness in the morning. [color=00a651][i]Am I fooling myself? No, I must have hallucinated, fever does it. I am not that weak, but I can feel the fire. Must be over 38 degrees, then. I would feel tired if it were just above the norm. I'll need medicine quickly. Perhaps they have some there. Steiner will help. Must see him. Tell him.[/i][/color] He hoped his new acquaintance,  Johan, would be there too. It was the first time the Asylum allowed visits. [color=00a651][i]Victorians. They paid to see inside. Rich people watching them twitch. For fun. Go home and show off, booty and spoils from expeditions. They bought mummies to dissect with friends after dinner. Morbid. Curious. They balsam them, preserve them, keep them safe from the ticking clocks. Deep inside, with servants and goods. For the afterlife. Hairless priests of the sun. God-Kings.[/i][/color]

He thundered a shot of phlegm into his mouth, spat it out on the snow, wiped his lips with his sleeve upon which a trail of mucus was left to dry in the cold air. His lung wings burned again and he coughed after each few sluggish steps he took. He snorted through his clogged nostrils. A cyclist ran past him. He wished to turn and look at him, but couldn't muster the strength. [color=00a651][i]Should have pissed. Weak bladder now. Won't hold long. Whiteish, diaphanous piss.[/i][/color] He walked riddled with goosebumps past a bakery whence came the most pleasant of odors. [color=00a651][i]Empty pockets. I forgot money. Idiot![/i][/color] The woman who worked inside came out and emptied a bucket of water that would soon freeze. She saw Emil, turning her face into a sad grimace at the sight of the wretched looking student, whom she must have mistaken for a homeless wanderer who had spent the night outside.
[color=ec008c]”Come! Come!”[/color] she said, Emil followed, confused. 
She reemerged from the inside, bearing a croissant filled with chocolate which she placed in Emil's hand. [color=00a651][i]Am I that bad?[/i][/color] The woman smiled and nodded, leaving before he had a chance to murmur a thanks.

Feeling lucky and glad for the sudden breakfast, but also in a way defeated in a sense unreachable to him, he soldiered on towards the Asylum, filling his stomach with the steaming hot pastry. [color=39b54a][i]Too warm. Diarrhea-inducing.[/i][/color] He ate with relish the layers of the croissaint despite the illness and aroused tongue. Just when he was done with the last bite, the structure appeared -- the Arkham Asylum. There was a group of people in front. He was obviously early and would wait at the distance, not feeling comfortable with company of the unknown yet. He tightened the scarf around his neck and leaned on the wall near the group enough to hear them talk and gossip -- Sean's name popping up every now and then in the context he couldn't fully piece together, but which included police and a veteran, from what he could gather --  still sweating cold and feeling the chocolate on his teeth, waiting for a familiar face, hopefully Steiner's.