Jax’s room was silent—too silent. For once, there were no snide comments bouncing off the walls, no muffled laughter leaking through the door. Just the sound of his own breathing—ragged, sharp, too fast. He’d locked the door behind him the moment he got back. Not because anyone cared to check on him. Because he needed the distance. The barrier. The space to fall apart without witnesses. At first, he just paced. Back and forth. Back and forth. The room felt smaller each time he turned. His tail, usually curled in its lazy arch, was twitching in frantic spurts. His shoulders hunched forward, shrinking, as if gravity had suddenly turned vengeful. Then something snagged in his chest. Tight. Unrelenting. He stumbled backward and sat hard on the floor, gripping the edges of his coat as his breathing turned into staccato gasps. In—in—out—in—no, no, not like that— His lungs weren’t working right. They weren’t listening. “Okay, okay, okay, it’s nothing—just a little glitch, yeah? Nothing’s wrong, I’m not wrong—” His voice cracked. His usual cocky lilt had vanished, replaced by a raw, scraped whisper. The walls felt like they were tilting inward. The vibrant colors of his room—those gaudy, saturated shades he usually liked mocking—blurred into each other. His vision tunneled. He curled his knees to his chest and pressed his forehead against them, trying to steady his breathing, but it only got worse. Each inhale felt like a fight. The abstract energy itched at his edges—just under the surface. He could feel it. He knew what happened to people when they let go like this. “No, no—stop it—just shut up already,” he hissed, to himself, to the pressure, to whatever part of him was cracking under the weight. He dug his fingers into his scalp, shaking, clawing for focus. “I’m not gonna glitch. I’m not. I’m not—” And then— A sob broke free. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just a wounded animal sound he couldn’t bite back. He was so tired of pretending none of this ever got to him. Of always being the smirking wildcard, the one with the cutting joke and no skin in the game. But it did get to him. It was getting to him now, and he didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this. Which was good—because no one was coming. Outside in the hall: The hall was quiet. Unnaturally so. Ragatha was on her way back from the rec wing, absentmindedly humming a half-forgotten tune. Her usual bounce was slower today—something about the air felt… wrong. Tense. Like the world was holding its breath. She passed Jax’s room without meaning to pause. Then she heard it. A sharp thud. Scraping. And something like... wheezing? She stopped cold, ears twitching toward the sound. The light underneath the door glitched in staccato flickers, casting fractured shadows across the floor. Her smile faded. “...Jax?” No answer. Another sound. This time unmistakable—hyperventilating. And then—something else. A low hum. Not from the lights. Not from the walls. But from him. Ragatha’s eyes widened. That sound—it had a frequency, like glass vibrating before it shatters. A sensation like pins and needles crawled down her limbs as she realized what was happening: he was starting to abstract. “No, no, no—” she whispered, pressing a palm to the door. Her whole body tensed. Inside, she could hear him muttering, the words broken and repetitive: “I’m fine, I’m fine, stop it, I’m not glitching, I’m not—” The buzz in the air deepened. It was that telltale, impossible pitch—the one that always preceded the worst. Lights above them flickered violently, one of them bursting with a pop. The walls themselves seemed to pulse. Through the door she could hear him sob. Not loud. Just soft, like he was trying to smother it. Then the sound twisted—his voice glitching, skipping like corrupted audio. Her heart sank. She’d never heard Jax like this. Not in pain. Not vulnerable. And definitely not unguarded. He was always the one lobbing barbs, smug and composed, like nothing ever touched him. Someone who'd finally run out of ways to laugh it off.