The fantasies began without invitation.
Ari did not seek them out, did not sit down and decide to imagine anything. They surfaced on their own, threading through his thoughts during moments of quiet, during exhaustion, during the long stretches where restraint pressed hardest.
At first, they were fragmented.
Images without sequence. Sensations without context. The idea of force rather than its execution.
He would be sitting in class, staring at the board, and suddenly his mind would supply a scenario—someone standing too close, breathing too loudly, occupying space that felt unbearable. In the fantasy, Ari did not hesitate. He did not negotiate. He acted, and the world simplified instantly.
Silence followed.
The clarity of it startled him every time.
He never moved when the thoughts appeared. His body remained still, posture compliant, expression neutral. No one noticed the shift behind his eyes.
At night, the fantasies sharpened.
Lying in bed, muscles taut with unused energy, Ari replayed imagined sequences with increasing detail. He did not focus on faces. Faces complicated things. He focused on actions, timing, outcomes.
What mattered was not the act itself, but the effect.
Noise ceased. Pressure released.
Order restored.
The fantasies were vivid enough that his heart rate slowed as he imagined them. His breathing evened out. The internal storm quieted as if responding to a real stimulus.
Ari recognized the pattern with unsettling clarity.
His mind was rehearsing.
Not because he wanted pleasure. Not because he wanted chaos. But because his body was seeking relief, and his thoughts had learned where relief lived.
He tested this deliberately one night.
As the noise surged, he closed his eyes and let the fantasy unfold fully—no interruptions, no self-correction. He allowed himself to imagine the moment of decisive force, the immediate aftermath, the space that followed.
His muscles loosened.
The pressure receded.
The effect was undeniable.
Ari sat up in bed afterward, pulse steady, mind eerily calm. He did not feel ashamed.
He felt efficient.
The next day, the fantasies returned faster, easier, slipping into place like a practiced response. He noticed how his mind adjusted details automatically—changing settings, angles, conditions—testing variables.
What worked fastest?
What lasted longest?
What left the fewest complications?
He was no longer imagining violence in the abstract. He was imagining solutions. The realization did not horrify him.
It anchored him.
Ari understood now that exhaustion, destruction, and pain had all been preliminary measures—crude tools for a problem that demanded precision. Fantasy offered something new: control without consequence.
For now.
That distinction mattered.
Late one evening, as he stood in the bathroom staring at his reflection, Ari felt the urge rise again, sharp and insistent. He did not act on it. He closed his eyes and let the fantasy carry him through instead.
The noise faded.
When he opened his eyes, his reflection looked unchanged. Calm. Contained. Ordinary.
Ari rested his hands on the sink and exhaled slowly. The fantasies were no longer intrusive.
They were intentional.
And as he turned off the light and returned to his room, one thought settled into place with chilling permanence:
If imagining it worked this well—Then someday, doing it would work even better.