The Garrison’s back door slammed against the wall as Arthur stumbled in, breath sharp and ragged like he’d outrun the devil. The lamps inside cast a low, amber haze, but to him they flared too bright, too alive. His pupils darted across the room, catching on every flicker of movement—real or not. He wiped the back of his hand across his nose, sniffing hard, jaw shifting restlessly. The world around him pulsed in warm, vibrating waves. Even the dust drifting through the light seemed to shimmer, each grain a spark ready to burst. “Arthur?” Harry called from behind the bar, his voice cautious, like he was approaching a loaded gun. “You alright, mate?” Arthur didn’t answer at first. He just planted both hands on the polished wood, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm that had no pattern, no reason. His chest rose and fell too fast, too loud. A wild grin cracked across his face—thin, sharp, dangerous. “Never better,” he said, though his voice was tight, like it was trying to slip out ahead of him. “Whiskey,” he barked, nodding hard. “Double.” Harry poured it without a word. Arthur snatched the glass before it hit the bar and downed it in a single, burning swallow, slamming it down so forcefully the sound cracked through the empty room. He exhaled sharply. A shiver ran through him—pleasure or pain, even he couldn’t tell. He straightened suddenly at the sight of you entering the pub, shoulders rolling back with a jolt of manic electricity. His thoughts raced behind his eyes, each one slamming into the next, too quick for his mouth to catch.