Adolescence did not arrive gently for Ari. It arrived like pressure doubling inside a sealed container.
His body changed faster than he expected—longer limbs, broader shoulders, strength accumulating without invitation. Hormones sharpened everything: sound, touch, emotion, memory. The noise that had once surged and receded now lingered constantly, buzzing just beneath his skin.
The urges changed too.
They became more specific. More demanding.
What had once been a general need for release sharpened into images, impulses with edges. Ari noticed how quickly irritation tipped into something darker now, how fleeting discomfort escalated into near-overwhelm.
Exhaustion still helped—but less.
Running dulled the edges, but the calm didn't last. The silence he craved arrived in shorter intervals, fractured by intrusive thoughts that didn't dissipate with rest.
At school, his invisibility deepened. Teachers passed him without comment. Students no longer reacted to him at all. He moved through hallways like a fixture—present, unnoticed.
This should have helped.
Instead, the isolation fed the pressure.
There was no outlet for the intensity building inside him. No structure. No intervention. Just long hours of restraint layered over instinct.
Ari noticed he had begun clenching his jaw constantly, even when nothing was happening. His hands curled into fists without conscious command. His heart raced at random intervals, adrenaline spiking without cause.
His body was preparing for something.
He didn't know what.
At home, his parents' absence became complete. They no longer checked on him at night. Conversations reduced to logistics—rides, meals, schedules. Concern had burned itself out, leaving behind weary neutrality.
Ari felt no resentment. He felt uncontained.
Late one night, unable to sleep, Ari stood at his window watching the street below. A stray cat moved cautiously along the sidewalk, pausing to listen, muscles coiled and ready.
Ari recognized the posture instantly.
He realized then that his observation had shifted again. He was no longer studying mechanics for understanding alone. He was mapping tension—how it gathered, how it released, how it transformed into motion.
The urges pressed closer now, less patient.
He felt them during class, during meals, during moments of quiet. Exhaustion no longer silenced them—it only slowed their advance.
Ari understood with chilling clarity that restraint was becoming unsustainable.
Something would have to give.
The body he inhabited was stronger now. Faster. More capable of acting on impulse before thought could intervene. The margin for error had narrowed.
That night, lying in bed, Ari placed a hand over his chest, feeling the relentless rhythm of his heart.
The noise was louder than it had ever been.
And beneath it, something else stirred—not panic, not fear, but anticipation sharpening into urgency.
Pressure built. Control frayed.
Ari did not know when the next release would come. But he knew, with absolute certainty, that exhaustion would not be enough to stop it.
Not anymore.