Maybe he could just wait this out, Chance supposed. He could simply wallow in his room and, eventually, his mind would stop wandering to that pizza boy. He remembers his face so vividly in his head.

But, the Spectre, in its infinite hatred, does not let up. Maybe he ingested something tampered with, or maybe he's caught some disease, but whatever compulsion is assaulting him is not his own and it's unbearably frustrating.

He tries to focus on his solitaire. It's all he's been doing to pass the time; card games. He's tried his hand regarding his flintlock to pass the time, but lady luck is on his side today in that it will not fire. His hands grasp at his hair. Where it was once tied back, it is well frizzed and he isn't too keen on wrangling it back into a ponytail.

That poor, unfortunate pizza boy. So compassionate, such a martyr. Surely he isn't satisfied with tending to everybodies' wounds for little return other than a 'thanks' and the extra help that comes in the form of the local killer getting slugged in the face. There has to be something he can do, there's so little he wouldn't--

--No, no. He shakes his head as if it'd clear the memory of his vivid daydreams just then on cue. It does not. And it's only a matter of time before he's checked on, and Elliot would single-handedly ruin his poker face.