Ari did not tell anyone.
The decision was instinctive, not strategic. The moment after silence faded and awareness returned, something inside him tightened—not with fear, but with clarity. Whatever had happened belonged to him alone.
He began by cleaning.
Not obsessively. Not perfectly. Just enough.
He washed his hands longer than necessary, scrubbing beneath his nails until the skin reddened. He rinsed his sleeves, changed his clothes, folded the old ones neatly and pushed them to the bottom of the laundry basket. The motions were calm, measured, almost soothing.
Nothing about it felt dramatic.
This surprised him.
He had expected panic. He had expected his heart to race or his thoughts to scatter. Instead, there was a steady focus—like a narrow beam of light illuminating the next necessary step.
Don't draw attention.
Don't leave questions behind.
The rules assembled themselves without instruction.
Ari disposed of what little needed disposing of without ceremony, choosing places that already collected waste, places no one examined closely. He did not linger. He did not look back.
Later, lying in bed, he replayed the day—not the act, but the aftermath. The quiet efficiency of it. The way his body had known what to do next without hesitation.
He realized something unsettling.
He was good at this.
Not at hurting—he did not frame it that way—but at managing the aftermath. At erasing traces. At behaving normally when normalcy was required.
The next morning, he tested himself.
At breakfast, his mother chatted distractedly, eyes on her phone. Ari nodded at the right moments, answered questions with appropriate brevity. His father read the paper, posture rigid but relaxed enough to suggest routine.
No one noticed anything different.
At school, Ari kept his head down, movements restrained. He avoided the alley behind the convenience store without consciously deciding to. The memory hovered, contained, sealed away.
When a teacher reprimanded him for not completing an assignment, Ari accepted the scolding without reaction. He did not argue. He did not explain. He simply nodded.
The teacher sighed, weary. "Just try harder next time."
Try harder meant nothing. Ari knew that now.
Throughout the day, he observed himself with a detached curiosity. He noted how easily he compartmentalized—how the secret slid into place behind a mental door that closed cleanly and stayed closed.
He did not feel proud of this ability.
He felt reassured.
Secrets, he understood, were not burdens if you treated them properly. They were tools. They allowed you to move through the world without interference.
That night, as he lay awake listening to the faint hum of the house, Ari pressed his palm flat against his chest, checking for the familiar surge of noise.
It was there, low and patient.
He breathed through it slowly.
He did not need relief yet.
The knowledge that relief was possible—that he could produce silence if the pressure rose too high—was enough to steady him.
Ari turned onto his side, eyes open in the dark. The secret rested inside him, contained and intact.
And somewhere beneath the remaining noise, something new took shape—not excitement, not anticipation, but confidence.
He could keep this to himself.
He could handle what came next.