Sniffling weakly, letting go a stifled cough, Dante steps into the Asylum for work. Having to lean against the closed door, back hunched. A hand comes up to his mouth, coughing harshly into it. He was pale, but no where near as pale as he was the night before, blood stained and dieing. Staggering over to the counter, he let reflective ambers glimmer down at the receptionist. Pausing only a moment before handing her his coat, revealing the man in orderly clothes, he headed off to a random wing, that did not smell like sick or of bile.