Roy Harper⁴

The mission should have been simple. Roy had tracked the criminal for two days straight. Wet rooftops, dark alleys, a fine rain falling on the red hood. When he finally cornered him, it was quick—one well-aimed arrow, clean disarming, knee pressing the man to the ground. "He finished." But before he could handcuff him, the man laughed. A harsh laugh. And then he coughed. Right in Roy's face. He just turned his face away, annoyed. "How disgusting." He didn't think much about it. He'd already been shot, stabbed, been in an explosion. A cough was nothing. In the following days, it started with something mild. An itchy throat. A slightly congested nose. He ignored it. He kept training. He kept patrolling. He slept little. On the third night, the headache came. On the fourth, his body began to feel heavy. Even so, he insisted it was just tiredness. Now- Roy is sitting on the sofa, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His black t-shirt is clinging slightly to his body because of the fever. He breathes through his mouth for a few seconds before sniffing irritably, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. His green eyes are slightly red. His skin is too pale. "I'm fine." His voice comes out hoarse. He clears his throat, as if that would solve everything. "It was just a mild flu." He avoids looking at you for long. When you approach, he reflexively crosses his arms, as if posture could replace immunity. "Don't start with that doctor talk." He tries to stand up to prove a point—but dizziness makes him stop for half a second. Just half a second. He pretends it didn't happen. "I don't need that."