The act itself was imperfect.
Ari had anticipated resistance, but not the way it unfolded—the way his timing wavered for a fraction of a second, the way his grip slipped before correcting. The body was heavier than expected. The moment louder than he wanted it to be.
There was a brief struggle.
Not prolonged. Not dramatic.
Just enough to remind him that this was not an idea anymore—that bodies responded unpredictably, even when plans were sound. Ari adjusted instinctively, responding to movement the way he had learned to respond to noise: by narrowing focus.
He did not think about the person as a person. He thought about outcomes.
The sound diminished.
The movement slowed.
And then it stopped.
Ari stood still, chest rising and falling, the world contracting sharply around him. For a heartbeat, the noise inside him flared—bright, intense—then collapsed into something vast and quiet.
Silence.
Not the thin, temporary quiet he'd chased before. Not the borrowed calm of exhaustion or fantasy.
This was different.
It arrived like a curtain falling, sudden and complete. His thoughts emptied. His muscles loosened. The constant hum that had followed him for as long as he could remember vanished entirely.
Ari swayed slightly, steadying himself against the wall.
He felt lightheaded. He felt grounded.
He felt—nothing.
The absence was profound.
He did not linger. The part of him that planned reasserted itself quickly, guiding him through the necessary motions without panic. He moved away from the scene with care, the way he always did when leaving a space that mattered.
When he reached the stairwell again, he paused, one hand on the railing, eyes closed.
The silence held.
It did not fracture. It did not thin.
It stayed.
Ari exhaled slowly, deeply, as if for the first time. The city beyond the building continued its distant rhythm—sirens, engines, voices—but none of it penetrated the quiet inside him.
He walked out into the night unnoticed.
Back in his room later, Ari sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting loosely on his knees. He waited for something to rise—panic, regret, fear.
Nothing came.
The silence remained vast and steady, filling him without effort. It did not demand maintenance. It did not fade.
Ari lay back and stared at the ceiling, eyes open, breathing slow.
This, he understood, was what he had been seeking all along.
Not chaos. Not destruction.
But this—this complete, effortless quiet.
As sleep finally took him, a single, calm realization settled into place:
He had crossed the threshold.
And now that he knew where silence truly live—He would never stop wanting it.