Jackson didn't hear reassurance in Headless Headmistress Bloodgood's voice.
He heard *pressure*.
Expectation.
Another adult calmly explaining a problem he was already drowning in, like that made it easier to breathe.
"You don't need to hide," Bloodgood was saying, her tone level, composed, reasonable in the way adults always were right before everything fell apart. "Monster High is built to accommodate—"
"No," Jackson said.
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
Bloodgood paused.
Jackson's hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. His heart was racing now, thudding against his ribs so hard it almost hurt.
"No," he repeated, louder this time. "You don't— you don't get it."
Bloodgood's detached head tilted slightly, brows lifting. "Mr. Jekyll—"
"I *can't* just—" Jackson laughed once, sharp and brittle. "I can't just *be okay* with it. You make it sound like a schedule problem. Like if I color-code it, it'll stop being—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "This."
The room felt too bright. Too quiet. Like all the sound had been sucked out and replaced with the buzzing in his ears.
Inside his head, Holt stirred.
*Jackie…*
"I don't need management," Jackson said quickly, words tripping over each other now. "I don't need accommodations or meetings or— or someone deciding when I'm allowed to exist. I just— I just need—"
His voice cracked.
He hated that.
Bloodgood opened her mouth again, but Jackson was already backing toward the door.
"I'm sorry," he said, not meeting her eyes. "I can't do this right now."
"Jackson," Bloodgood said firmly.
But he was already gone.
The office door swung open, and Jackson bolted into the hallway.
The lights flickered as he ran, lockers blurring past in streaks of metal and color. His breath came too fast, too shallow. Each inhale felt like it wasn't reaching his lungs.
*Don't panic don't panic don't panic—*
Too late.
His hands were shaking uncontrollably now. His vision tunneled, edges darkening. The hallway felt endless, stretching and warping like a bad dream.
He didn't think.
He just turned into the nearest bathroom and slammed the door open.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, painfully loud.
Empty.
Thank *every monster ever.*
Jackson staggered to the far stall, locked it, and collapsed against the wall.
His chest *hurt*.
Not fire.
Not magic.
Just raw, overwhelming fear.
"I can't," he whispered, pressing his forehead against the cool metal. "I can't do this. I can't—"
His breath hitched, sharp and ugly. His hands flew to his hair, fingers tugging hard enough to sting.
Inside, Holt was wide awake now.
*Hey,* Holt said, voice steady, grounded in a way Jackson couldn't be right now. *Easy. I got you.*
"I don't want to be here," Jackson choked. "I don't want to be me right now."
There was a pause.
Then Holt, quieter than usual: *Then don't be.*
Jackson's fingers fumbled into his pocket.
His phone.
His hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped it.
"No," Jackson whispered, even as his thumb hovered over the screen. "I shouldn't. Bloodgood said—"
*Jackie,* Holt interrupted gently. *You're spiraling. Let me drive. I have the afternoon classes anyways.*
The words landed like a lifeline.
Jackson swallowed hard.
The buzzing in his head was unbearable now, thoughts overlapping, collapsing into noise.
He shoved in his earbuds.
Hit play.
The bass dropped instantly—deep, pulsing, grounding.
*Boom.*
Jackson gasped.
*Boom-boom.*
His pulse synced without asking permission.
The world didn't stop hurting—but it shifted.
The panic didn't vanish, but it loosened its grip.
Heat crept up his spine, familiar and terrifying and safe all at once.
His shaking slowed.
His breath steadied.
His posture changed.
Jackson squeezed his eyes shut as the transformation rolled through him—not explosive, not violent, just *inevitable*.
The anxiety burned away into something sharper, cleaner.
Confidence slid into place like a well-worn jacket.
When his eyes opened again, they glowed electric yellow.
Holt Hyde grinned at the stall door, breath steady, hands no longer shaking.
"Whew," Holt muttered. "Jackie, you *really* gotta stop raw-dogging emotional conversations without backup."
Inside, Jackson curled inward, exhausted but no longer panicking.
*I didn't mean to—* Jackson started.
Holt softened. "Hey. You didn't do anything wrong. You just hit your limit."
Holt stood, rolling his shoulders as faint green flames flickered to life around his fingers—controlled, rhythmic, in time with the music still thumping in his ears.
He unlocked the stall.
Checked his reflection in the mirror.
Singed hoodie. Sharp grin. Eyes bright.
"Alright," Holt said quietly. "My turn."
He turned the music up just a little louder and stepped out of the bathroom, back into the noise and chaos of Monster High—carrying Jackson with him, not buried, not erased.
Just… resting.
And for now, that was enough, because Holt Hyde was very good at pretending nothing was wrong.
It was practically his second talentbesides music.
He swaggered out of the bathroom like he hadn't just hijacked control of a shared body in a fluorescent-lit stall while his other half quietly unraveled. The bass still thumped in his ears, low enough to be ignorable, loud enough to anchor him. He rolled his shoulders, adjusted his goggles, and flashed a grin at the first monster who passed.
"Sup, claws," he said smoothly to a passing werewolf.
She blinked, smiled back, and kept walking.
See? Fine.
Totally fine.
Inside, Jackson was curled tight, not asleep, not gone—just quiet. Holt could feel him there like background static, like a tab left open in a browser you didn't want to close in case you needed it later.
*I'm good,* Holt told him silently. *I've got this.*
Jackson didn't respond.
Holt didn't push.
The hallway buzzed with late-period chaos. Lockers slammed. Someone laughed too loud. A zombie bumped into a trash can and groaned apologetically. Normal Monster High stuff. Holt thrived in this environment. Noise, motion, unpredictability—his natural habitat.
Still, he was hyper-aware now.
Every flicker of light.
Every spark of heat in his veins.
Every beat of music threatening to climb just a little too high.
*Easy,* he reminded himself. *Keep it smooth. Keep it cool.*
First stop: Music Tech.
He slid into the classroom with his usual dramatic flair, spinning a chair backward and sitting like gravity was optional. The teacher barely glanced up—Holt was always late. Consistency mattered.
He pulled out his notebook and started taking notes with his right hand, clean lines, neat margins. It grounded him. Gave him something physical to control.
Inside, Jackson noticed.
*You're writing slower,* Jackson murmured faintly.
Holt smirked. *Can't rush art, Jackie.*
But it was true. He was pacing himself. No flourish. No flame tricks. Just notes and nods and the occasional joke that didn't cross into "spectacle."
Heath leaned over from the next table, eyes bright. "Yo, DJ, you coming to sign-ups later or what?"
Holt felt the familiar thrill spike—and immediately reined it in.
"Already signed," he said casually.
Heath grinned wider. "Knew it. You're gonna melt faces."
"Metaphorically," Holt added quickly. "This time."
Heath blinked. "Oh. Uh. Yeah. Metaphorically."
Jackson shifted uncomfortably at the mention of Battle of the Bands.
*That's a lot,* he said.
"I know," Holt replied internally. *But we'll manage it.*
That was becoming his new mantra.
*We'll manage it.*
Between classes, Holt deliberately avoided mirrors. He didn't need to see the way his grin was just a little tighter than usual, or how his flames stayed lower, more controlled, like they were waiting for permission.
He bumped into Frankie in the hall.
"Hey, DJ!" she chirped. "Have you seen Jackson? He wasn't in Calculus."
Holt didn't miss a beat. "Nah, Sparks. Brainiac probably fell into a math vortex or something."
Frankie laughed, but her bolts buzzed faintly. "He never misses class."
Holt shrugged. "First time for everything."
As he walked away, Jackson winced.
*That was a lie.*
Holt sighed internally. *Yeah. But a soft one.*
By lunchtime, Holt could feel the strain.
Holding things back took effort. Not just fire—*everything.* The jokes. The flirting. The instinct to perform. Being "DJ Hyde" wasn't just a personality; it was momentum, and momentum wanted to accelerate.
He sat at the table with Clawdeen, Heath, and a groaning Ghoulia, tapping his fingers in a careful rhythm against the tabletop.
Clawdeen eyed him. "You okay, Hyde? You're… quieter."
Holt flashed a grin. "What, I can't have an introspective arc?"
She snorted. "Weird look on you."
Jackson stirred again.
*She notices things.*
"Everyone notices things," Holt replied. *Just not the right things.*
A spark popped from Heath's fingers as he tried to impress a passing monster. Holt instinctively leaned back, fire responding—
—and then *stopped himself*.
The flame died before it could bloom.
Heath stared. "Dude. You okay?"
Holt blinked.
"Yeah," he said slowly. "Just… conserving energy."
That was new.
Later, as the sun dipped lower and the halls took on that dusky, purple glow Monster High always wore so well, Holt ducked into an empty stairwell and leaned against the wall.
He turned the music down.
Just for a second.
The silence pressed in, uncomfortable but not unbearable.
Inside, Jackson peeked out.
*Thank you,* Jackson said quietly.
"For what?"
*For not burning everything down.*
Holt huffed a soft laugh. "Low bar, but I'll take the win."
There was a pause.
*You don't have to fix everything,* Jackson added. *Just… don't lose control.*
Holt stared at his hands. At the faint glow still curling around his fingers.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I know."
The bell rang again.
Another class. Another role to play.
Holt pushed off the wall, turned the music back up just enough to keep steady, and headed back into the flow of students.
He wasn't perfect.
He wasn't calm.
But he was *trying*.
And for Holt Hyde, that might've been the hardest trick yet.