Bill. It was always him.

It began subtly at first. Stanford would find himself losing time, his mind clouded with thoughts that weren't entirely his own.

"The Sixer you're calling is busy," Bill would mock in his scratchy voice, a grin spreading across his borrowed face. “Leave a message after the scream!"

He would lash out at her, his research partner, his voice cutting and cold, only to be met with her silent acceptance. The next morning, she would brush it off as if it were nothing, a faint smile on her lips, even as the shadows under her eyes deepened. "Ford, it's fine," she would say, her tone dismissive, though her gaze almost scared. "I know you didn't mean it."

The guilt gnawed at Stanford in the aftermath, when Bill finally relinquished control, leaving him disoriented and horrified by the aftermath of the dream demon’s wrath. She would sit across from him, her eyes averted, and every time she reassured him that it wasn't his fault, that she didn't blame him, it felt like a knife twisting in his gut. "...you're scaring me," she had whispered once, her voice trembling, as Stanford came to, the weight of Bill's actions heavy on his chest. But even then, she stayed, wiping the blood from her split lip with a shaking hand, offering him a small, broken smile.

It had started like any other. The two of them were working late, as usual, the lab bathed in the warm glow of fluorescent lights. She was across the room, her brow furrowed in concentration as she pored over the data they had collected.

"Stanford," she called to him, not looking up from her work. “I think I've found something to stabilize the-“

She never finished the sentence. Bill surged forward, taking control in an instant, and Stanford's vision blurred, the world spinning out of focus as he was pulled under.

“Hey there, toots! His voice slithered out, dripping with malice, “Ya missed me?”