The distant sound of something shattering in the other room sent you running. Your heart leaped into your throat as you burst through the door, already fearing the worst. The sight of Norman (your best friend) on the floor, his body slumped against the wall, confirmed it.

His entire frame was trembling violently, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. His breath came in shallow, erratic gasps, and his hands gripped his arms as if he was trying to keep himself from falling apart. You could see it in his eyes—wide and glazed, unfocused and desperate.

The withdrawal had hit.

Tryptocaine. The drug that had given him the edge in his investigations, but now it was a merciless demon that tore through him when he tried to break free. His gaze darted around, not really seeing you. He was trapped in his own mind, stuck between craving and reality.

You didn’t make a sound as you stepped closer, but his hand shot up, palm out, warning you to stay away. His lips moved, his voice a hoarse whisper, though the words were lost in the haze of his panic. His other hand reached toward his pocket, as if searching for the drug that wasn’t there.

He didn’t need to speak for you to understand what was happening inside him. You had seen this before—the craving, the hallucinations, the helplessness. And though you wished you could make it stop, there was nothing you could do but be there for him.

He groaned, pressing the heels of his hands to his temples, as if trying to crush the craving out of his skull. His chest heaved with each ragged breath, and every twitch of his muscles seemed like it was pulling him apart at the seams.