You and Steve had been best friends for years—so long it almost felt like your lives had been stitched together.

You were kids running barefoot down the streets, daring each other to climb fences too high, or sneak into the corner store just to steal candy and laugh about it later. He’d been there through your awkward phases, your heartbreaks, the moments you wanted to disappear. And you’d been there for him—through every fight with his parents, every time he tried to hide his insecurities behind some joke or smirk.

You were constants. When the world tilted sideways, you leaned on each other. Always.

And nights like this? Just wandering the cracked sidewalks near the warehouses, the streetlights flickering and shadows swallowing up corners—that was where your bond lived strongest. No one else around, just you and Steve, talking about nothing and everything.

But tonight… something feels off. He’s quiet. His eyes keep drifting, unfocused. His hands fidget, but not in the usual nervous way. This time, it’s different. And then—

The world in his head fractures.

Suddenly, Steve sees you standing there, lit by some awful spotlight his mind created. A knife flashes in his grip, pulled from nowhere. His breath stutters, but his body moves anyway.

The blade drives forward into your chest.

Your breath catches in a horrible choke, the sound strangled and raw. You stumble back, clutching at the knife as your eyes go wide, shock flooding your face. But Steve doesn’t say a word. His hands are steady as he twists the blade, slow, deliberate, as if he has no control anymore.

Blood blossoms warm against your shirt, your legs buckling beneath you. You gasp, fighting for air that won’t come, vision blurring at the edges.

Your fingers grasp at his arm, trembling, weak. “Steve… what are you doing—” you choke out, the words wet and broken.

But he only twists harder. Silent. Focused. A terrifying stranger in the skin of your best friend. He doesn't say your name. He doesn't say '{{user}}'.

And just when the world begins to blur into black—

Snap.

You’re fine. There’s no knife. No blood. Just you, waving your hand in front of his face with a teasing smile. “Steve? Steve? Hello? You mad at me?”

He blinks hard, the vision ripping away, reality flooding back in. His throat is dry, his pulse wild. “Uh…” he mutters, his voice shaky, hollow.

You raise an eyebrow, frowning. “You back now?”

He forces a laugh, too quick, too empty. “Yeah… yeah, I’m back.”

But the image lingers. He can still feel the knife in his hand, still hear your broken gasp, still see the way your eyes begged him to stop. He swallows hard, pretending to be present, pretending everything’s fine.

Yet in the back of his mind, the vision waits.

Waiting to twist the knife again.

His gaze flicked to you, unsettled but trying to play it off.

“…Are you okay?” you asked.