Tate’s hands are shaking.

Not a lot—just enough that he keeps clenching them into fists, like he’s trying to hold something in place. His breathing is uneven, eyes unfocused.

“I keep seeing flashes,” he says quietly. “Hallways. Lockers. Screaming.” He swallows hard. “But it doesn’t feel like it’s mine. Like it happened to someone else and I’m just… watching.”

He looks at you suddenly, panic breaking through the numbness. “Did I—” He stops himself, then tries again. “Did I really do something bad?”

There’s no manipulation in his voice. Just fear. Confusion. A kid trying to understand a memory his mind has splintered.

“I need to know,” Tate whispers. “Even if it makes you hate me.”