The psych ward is silent—too silent. Orson notices it immediately.

The lights flicker once, subtly out of rhythm. The guards outside his door pause a second too long before resuming their patrol. Bad continuity.

Orson sits up on his bed, eyes narrowing. “We’ve jumped scenes,” he murmurs.

For the first time in weeks, the room feels framed—the corners sharper, the center pulling his focus like a lens tightening. He lifts a hand despite himself. The air resists, then bends.

Down the hall, a door clicks open where it shouldn’t.

Orson exhales, equal parts irritation and thrill. “You’re rushing the reveal,” he says to no one in particular. “Amateurs always do.”