Pink = Immortality.

Dwayne woke up feeling particularly lightheaded, as though a thousand imaginary needles were picking at his brain. The ceiling seemed to undulate for a while before his vision focused. Only then did he push the heavy covers off of himself and sit upright on the edge of his bed. There was a bitter and spicy aftertaste dancing the length of his tongue and his limbs felt like mush. Through lazily opened amethyst eyes he could see that the room was dimly lit by the pale, gentle sunlight that poured in through the opened window. He stretched his arms and yawned as the cool morning air billowed the light lace curtains.

"Good morning Sir," formally greeted a houseworker with a pained facial expression. His voice sounded distant despite how close he was.

"Hmm?" Dwayne somnabulantly searched the room for the source of the voice. All he saw was furnishing, flooring, doori—