You don’t remember what set it off—just the way everything started pressing in. The room too loud, the lights too bright, your skin too tight. You’d been holding it together, you really had. But then Alastor had leaned in earlier, voice soft and curious: “You ever wonder why it never stops?” He said it like he was asking about the weather.

You’d laughed. Nervously. Brushed it off.

But now, your breath is shallow. Chest tight. Fingernails biting into your palms. You sit in the hallway, back against the wall, knees pulled up. The hum in your ears drowns out thought. You’re spiraling, and you don’t even know when it started.

“Ah,” comes the voice, smooth as silk and laced with static. “There it is.”

He appears like a shadow folding out of thin air, crouching in front of you. The smile is still there—always there—but something in his eyes has sharpened. Not quite pity. Not quite joy. Something hungrier.

“Poor thing. It builds and builds and builds, doesn’t it?” He brushes your temple with the back of a claw, feather-light. “No silence. No peace. Not even in your own head.”

Your throat tightens. You can’t answer.

He tilts his head. “Wouldn’t it be nice, just for a moment? Quiet. Calm. Not being crushed by the weight of your own mind.”

He extends a hand.

“No tricks. No catches. Just a small exchange—your soul, for a little silence.”

His voice lowers, soft and intimate, almost kind. “I could make it all stop.”

And gods, in that moment, you almost believe him.