She's not going to figure out where it's coming from; it's everywhere: around them, inside the room, staining the silence. Echoing. But there's a muffled quality to it, too, like it's blurred. Indistinguishable.

There's a door. She can walk through the fucking door. That's the exit. And maybe if his thoughts weren't so jumbled, his veins not so icy, he'd understand. What she's feeling. How disorienting it is to land in this room without warning. That it is not a vision he would wish on anyone. He's buried it here for a reason. He's tried to rid himself of it. He has. He's touched this door several times, willed it away. It never lasts more than a few hours.

She will want to know what it is. He does not wish to explain. Why would he? What the fuck would she even understand?

His jaw tightens. He sucks in a breath. "I will not tell you again."