Stein's palm is pressed flat against the screw in his head. Every turn and crank still felt wrong, no matter what he did.

One,

"No.. still not right.." His cigarette dangles from his lips and he crushes his teeth around the nicotine.

Two,

"What am I missing?" He near growls to himself, and even if he doesn't want to admit it, he knows what's wrong.

The fog that clouds his brain, the darkness that creeps into the corners of his eyes. Things that aren't actually there, moving and taunting him. Random fits of giggles. And, most importantly, the urge to dissect. To observe. Explore.

Medusa is driving him mad, and he knows it. He squeezed the screw tighter, cranking it a third time.