It happens without warning.

One moment the hallway is empty — the next, the walls breathe, warp, remember. The House projects him forward: Tate, but wrong. Sharper. Meaner. Eyes vacant like something already rotted inside.

The distortion laughs. Not loudly. Casually. Like violence is effortless.

Michael freezes.

His breath stutters, just once. He turns his face away as if the sight might stain him. The House presses closer anyway — peeling back moments, exaggerating the cruelty, the hollow rage, the absence of regret.

“That’s what you’re headed for,” the silence seems to say.

Michael’s jaw tightens. His hands curl at his sides.

“I won’t be like that,” he says quietly. Not a threat. Not a declaration.

A plea.

The image flickers, unbothered by his denial. Michael stands there longer than he should, staring at the wall like it might answer him back.