Ari learned restraint the way one learned to endure weather. Not by stopping it—but by surviving it until it passed.
The first time he discovered exhaustion muted the urges, it happened by accident. A night of pacing his room until his legs burned, of clenching and unclenching his hands until his forearms ached. By the time he collapsed onto his bed, breath ragged, the noise inside him had dulled to a low, distant hum.
Sleep came quickly.
When he woke, the world felt manageable again.
Ari took note.
He began to experiment cautiously. When the pressure rose—when the tightness in his chest sharpened into something volatile—he moved instead of breaking. He ran until his lungs screamed. He did push-ups until his arms trembled violently beneath him. He clenched his jaw so hard his temples throbbed.
Pain still worked.
But exhaustion worked cleaner.
There were no traces to hide. No broken objects to explain. No risks attached.
At school, he volunteered for physical tasks no one else wanted. Carrying chairs. Stacking equipment. Running errands across campus. Teachers welcomed the compliance, mistaking it for responsibility.
Ari didn't correct them.
He learned the exact threshold—how much exertion it took to flatten the urges without igniting them. Too little, and the noise remained. Too much, and the agitation spiked dangerously.
Control, he discovered, was a balancing act.
At home, he took longer routes when walking back from school. He climbed the stairs two at a time, over and over, until sweat soaked through his shirt. He scrubbed floors aggressively, muscles burning, mind narrowing.
His parents noticed the changes.
"He's very active lately," his mother said once, uncertain.
"It's good," his father replied. "Keeps him occupied."
Occupied was close enough to accurate.
For a while, it worked.
Days passed without incident. Weeks. Ari felt a fragile sense of mastery take shape—not over the noise itself, but over its timing. He could delay it. Redirect it. Push it down long enough to get through a day without consequences.
The adults relaxed further.
School faded into background routine. Home became quieter still. Ari understood the cost immediately. The exhaustion accumulated.
His body grew leaner, harder, always tight with latent strain. Sleep came easily but never felt restorative. He woke already tired, carrying fatigue forward like a debt.
And beneath it all, the urges waited.
They did not weaken. They adapted.
One afternoon, after an especially long run, Ari sat on the curb behind his house, head bowed, breathing slow. His muscles ached pleasantly, the noise reduced to a manageable throb.
But when a car backfired nearby—a sudden, violent sound—something flared inside him instantly, sharp and hot.
He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. Exhaustion suppressed the urge, but it didn't erase it. It only delayed the moment it demanded repayment.
That night, lying in bed, Ari stared at the ceiling, pulse steady, mind alert despite his fatigue. He understood something with quiet certainty.
This kind of control was borrowed.
Temporary.
The noise would return stronger for being held back. And when it did, exhaustion alone would not be enough.