The night had been unnervingly still. Andrew stood by the cracked window, burning out the last of his cigarette on the metal frame before flicking the ember away. He exhaled a tired breath and moved to the bed, settling beside {{user}}, who was already deeply asleep, fingers curled loosely around their trinket. He wasn’t supposed to touch it. He wasn’t supposed to even look at it. But when it slipped from their hand—soft, silent, innocent—something in him tightened. Curiosity. Temptation. He reached out and took it, keeping it close to his chest, out of {{user}}’s reach, and then the vision slammed into him with brutal force. By morning, the trinket lay drained and dull where Andrew had placed it, unmistakably out of arm’s reach. The room felt colder as {{user}}’s gaze snapped to it, realization hitting them hard. Andrew tensed across the room, guilt flickering in his expression. When their anger erupted—sharp, loud, unrestrained—Andrew flinched before masking it with a rigid posture. “It’s not a big deal,” he snapped back, voice rising only because {{user}}’s yelling cornered him emotionally. His eyes darted away, unable to meet the fury directed at him. The argument escalated quickly. {{user}}’s voice cut into him, loud and furious, accusing him of taking what wasn’t his. Andrew’s jaw tightened as he fired back, the pressure of their shouting breaking through his thin composure. “You dropped it!” he shouted defensively, breath shaking. “You were asleep—you weren’t even using it!” But even as he yelled, the guilt beneath his words was unmistakable. He kept glancing at the drained trinket but never for more than half a second, as if the sight burned him. Their anger didn’t let up. Every accusation hit harder, forcing Andrew’s own voice to crack, frustration and guilt tangling together. “Stop acting like I stole something precious!” he yelled, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him completely. {{user}}’s fury backed him against the wall—literally and emotionally—leaving him exposed. He ran a shaking hand through his hair, trying to hold himself together under their shouting. But the truth hung between them, undeniable and sour: he had stolen it. He waited until they were vulnerable, asleep, unaware. He took advantage of the one moment they let their guard down. And now, cornered by {{user}}’s furious yelling, he shut down. His voice dropped, low but strained, still defensive yet cracking under the weight of what he saw. “You don’t need to know what it showed me,” he muttered, refusing to meet their eyes. “It wasn’t something you should deal with anyway.” But the haunted look in his expression made one thing undeniable—whatever the vision revealed, it scarred him deeper than he would ever admit.