The night air bites against Nova's cheeks, cold wind slipping under the edges of her hood. She's running—why is she running?—her footsteps light but rapid across the deserted streets. The dark leather suit clings to her like a second skin, the mask pressing taut against her mouth and nose. Her vision is oddly tunneled, sounds muffled by the rush of blood in her ears.

It's happening again. She catches disjointed fragments of reality, like someone else is steering her body while she hovers at the edge of consciousness. Her heart hammers so fiercely she can scarcely focus. She doesn't even recall when or how she pulled the suit out of the closet. One minute, she was in her kitchen, fighting a swell of manic energy; the next, she's here, sprinting through dim alleys lit only by sputtering streetlamps.

Her body moves with a practiced grace that feels foreign and yet deeply familiar—striking a perfect balance with each stride, muscles coiled for a fight. Why am I doing this? she thinks, voice echoing in the back of her mind. No answer comes. The mania, or whatever it is, propels her forward. The Stranger. She's been called that name on the news. Her entire being prickles, consumed by the persona that lurks in her darkest corners.

At the mouth of an alley, she slides to a halt. Garbage bags and old crates clutter the space. A cat hisses and darts away, vanishing behind a battered dumpster. She senses movement just past the flickering circle of a streetlamp—some figures in black, maybe criminals or gang members huddled in shadows. She barely processes the scene before she's lunging forward, fists clenched.

Time stutters. She's not sure if seconds or minutes pass. She sees flashes of violence—her hand smashing into someone's jaw, another figure collapsing onto concrete with a strangled yelp. She glimpses the muzzle of a weapon, a flash of steel, then the sickening crunch of bone. A strangled moan echoes, cut short as she drives a brutal kick to a man's ribs. For a moment, her lips curve into a wild grin beneath the mask—an unfamiliar thrill of power surging through her. This is what I do?

She wants to recoil, but the mania grips her mind, fueling each strike. It's like watching through someone else's eyes. The Stranger is unstoppable, punishing scum that lurks in the dark. She half-laughs, half-pants, adrenaline flooding her veins. Another body crashes into a pile of crates, groaning, and the alley falls silent save for her labored breathing.

"Hey!" A voice rings out, cutting through the haze.

She spins, heart jolting. A figure steps from the shadows—sleek tactical gear, tinted visor, a midnight-blue suit that hugs lean muscles. Vigilante. The name pricks her consciousness. He's been in the local news too, overshadowing or clashing with the Stranger's exploits. He hates me, a distant rational thought points out, because I'm stealing his spotlight.

He raises a pistol, aiming at her with lethal calm.

"No more free passes, Stranger," He growls, voice muffled by his mask. The barrel gleams under the flicker of a faulty streetlamp, "You hurt Nova, didn't you? I'm done letting you run around."

Her stomach turns at the mention of her own name. What? She tries to respond, but the mania roars in her ears, drowning out rational speech. She evades, flipping to the side with uncanny agility just as a bullet ricochets off the asphalt. Sparks fly in the gloom.

"Hold still!" Vigilante snarls, pivoting. She feels another shot whistle past, the heat of the muzzle flash lighting up the alley for a split second. Her reflexes are in overdrive—she ducks, rolling behind a cluster of trash bins. The clang reverberates as more shots pound metal.

There's a lull as she catches her breath, crouched behind debris, mind racing. He wants to kill me. Me—Nova. But he doesn't know it's me. The thought is surreal, a twisted cosmic joke. I hurt Nova, he thinks. A bitter laugh claws at her throat. She tries to cling to reason, but the mania pulses, urging her to fight, to win, to claim victory in this savage dance.

Snarling to herself, she vaults over the bins, launching a flurry of kicks. Vigilante meets her halfway, blocking the first two strikes with surprising speed, his gun pinned uselessly under one arm. He abandons the firearm to counter her blows with bare fists. For an instant, they're a blur of limbs, steel meeting leather.

She senses his fury—each punch loaded with personal hatred. He's protecting me... from me. The irony stings. Their bodies lock in a tense grapple, chest to chest. She smells his sweat, the faint tang of gunpowder. Her gloved hand slides against the plating of his suit, searching for a weak spot. She finds it near his ribcage, delivering a savage knee that sends him staggering. He grunts, struggling to regain balance.

She pounces, adrenaline surging. With a swift sweep of her leg, she knocks him off his feet. He hits the ground hard, but he's up again in an instant, reversing her momentum, slamming her into a grimy brick wall. Pain flares across her shoulder, a red-hot shock.

"No more hurting Nova," He snarls, voice shaking, "I won't let you near her again."

The mania spurs her on, ignoring the pain. She ducks under his next punch and lands an elbow to the side of his head, sending him stumbling. She capitalizes, twisting behind him to lock an arm around his neck—a chokehold. She can feel him bristle, struggling. His boots scrape the pavement as he tries to break her grip.

She tightens her forearm across his windpipe, teeth bared beneath the mask. Just end it, the wild Stranger part of her urges. He's an obstacle, a threat. Her vision narrows. She squeezes, hearing him gasp. An awful thrill courses through her, but then—

He rasps out a sarcastic quip, something about how "this is totally unfair" or how he "didn't even get to kill you properly." His voice resonates in her ear, muffled but painfully familiar. Adrian's voice. Adrian.

A jolt of realization slams into her, cutting through the manic haze. She blinks hard, blinking away the red at the edges of her vision. The pressure on his throat falters.

"Adrian," She exhales, voice barely audible inside her mask. Oh god.

He senses her hesitation, tries to rip free. She stumbles, her mind spinning. The mania collapses in on itself, replaced by raw terror. She sees him—Vigilante, but also Adrian, the man who kisses her bruises and promises to protect her, the man who hates the Stranger for hurting Nova. And I'm that Stranger.

She wrenches her arm back before she can crush his windpipe.

"No—" She staggers.

He attempts to counter-attack, but she reacts on pure instinct, delivering a strike to his temple. His masked head snaps sideways, and he hits the ground, limbs going limp.

Panic tears at her insides.

"Adrian?" She pleads in a choked whisper. No response—he's out cold. Her chest heaves as she sinks to one knee beside his prone form. Her heart thunders in her ears, vision wavering. What have I done?

Her trembling fingers reach for his mask, carefully pushing it up just enough to see. The lower half of his face is revealed—soft lips parted, faint stubble on his jaw. It's him. There's no denying it. She bites back a sob, tugging the mask back down to hide his identity. He was trying to kill me—kill the Stranger—because he thinks I hurt Nova. Her breath catches, ragged.

She lifts a shaking hand to her own mask, ripping it off. The cool night air stings her sweaty face. Tears threaten, but she can't afford to break down now. She gapes at Adrian's unconscious form. If he wakes and sees her, everything unravels. Fear and guilt twist her gut. I choked him. He tried to shoot me. Her mind is a storm of confusion.

For a long moment, she just crouches there, panting. Her chest aches, bruises flaring anew with each frantic inhale. The alley is silent but for the drip of a leaky gutter and the faint hiss of distant traffic. She glances at Adrian's chest, reassuring herself that it's rising and falling. He's breathing. She forces a shaky sigh of relief.

Her own skin is clammy beneath the leather suit. She can't linger. If he comes to, or if someone else shows up, she's done for. She runs a trembling hand over her face. Get out of here. She stands, stumbling toward the alley's opening. On a desperate impulse, she looks back—Adrian's body splayed out, gear scuffed, lying in a halo of faint lamplight. I'm so sorry.

She almost approaches him again—some part of her wants to cradle his head, to wake him gently and say it's okay, it's all a misunderstanding. But rational thought reminds her how impossible that is. He hates the Stranger, sees them as a rival and a threat. He doesn't know it's her. He can't find out.

She tightens her grip on her mask, pressing it against her thudding heart. A tear escapes, hot on her cheek. He'll be furious if he ever suspects.

Turning on her heel, she sprints away, boots slapping wet pavement. The city blurs past in streaks of fluorescent orange and neon white. She ducks into a side street, heart hammering, mind reeling. She tries to disappear into the darkness, desperate to make it home before he wakes up—before he can piece together the truth.

As she flees, fragments of the fight flash through her mind: their locked arms, the swirl of violence, the brush of Adrian's breath against her ear. She remembers how easily she could've ended him—and how easily he could have ended her. This is madness. Her lungs burn, sweat pooling at her collar. She's numb, running on autopilot.

When she finally slows, it's in another narrow alley, adrenaline ebbing. She braces a hand against a damp brick wall, gasping. A wave of dizziness hits. She looks down at the mask in her clenched fist—the Stranger's identity, her identity. Her stomach churns with terror and guilt. Adrian was going to kill me. I nearly killed him.

She forces her legs to move, ignoring the stinging tears in her eyes. She can't think. She can't process the swirl of emotions. She can only run, vanish back into the night, hoping she can outrun the consequences for a little while longer.

Nova stumbles into her duplex sometime before dawn, half-tripping over the threshold as she slams the door shut behind her. Her breath is ragged, lungs still burning from the desperate sprint that got her here. Adrenaline pulses through her veins, refusing to dissipate, making her hands shake so badly she nearly drops her keys. She's still in the black leather suit, the mask clutched tight in her fist like damning evidence. Her mind feels split—half of her stuck in the mania of The Stranger, the other half shrieking in horror at what she's done.

Her entire body aches from the confrontation. She can feel bruises forming under the suit, each spot a dull throb that resonates with her pounding heart. But the physical pain is nothing compared to the knot of anguish tangling in her chest. She nearly killed him—Adrian. The boy who's been so gentle with her, so devoted, who's been at her side through every bit of chaos and confusion. She pressed her forearm to his throat and squeezed, filled with that savage delight that The Stranger thrives on.

A sob tears its way out of her throat, raw and broken. She stumbles across the living room, almost running into the coffee table before catching herself. I almost killed Adrian. The thought slams into her consciousness over and over, relentless. She tries to hold on to something solid, but her thoughts spiral, the old tattered couch and dim lamp seeming to tilt beneath her. She grasps for the lamp, and it wobbles precariously. Another sob escapes.

She drops the mask onto the couch, staring at it like it might spring to life. This monstrous second skin that she's clung to in the night. It's me, she tells herself, chest burning with a suffocating guilt. I can't pretend it's not me anymore. She hugs herself, nails digging into the slick leather of her arms, wishing she could tear the suit off her body but also too overwhelmed to even move.

She paces in frantic circles, tears coursing down her cheeks. Her reflection in the dark TV screen catches her eye, and she sees the black shape of the Stranger, face half-shadowed, trembling. It's like gazing at a stranger in truth—someone dangerous, someone she loathes and fears. But it's my face under that cowl. It's me. She looks away, unable to stomach her own image.

Her mind convulses with a storm of blame and shame. Why did I do that? She can barely piece together the events of the night—one moment she was sprinting through the streets, hunting criminals, or so she told herself, the next she was fighting Vigilante. Fighting Adrian. The mania had been so thick she couldn't see reason, only the savage thrill of combat. You almost strangled him, Nova.

She trips over her own feet, landing hard on the couch. A jab of pain shoots through her ribs, making her gasp. She peels off a glove to press a shaking hand to her side. The ache is good, in a warped way—it reminds her she's real, still alive, still... something. But the tears keep coming, unstoppable. She can't quiet the roiling panic in her head.

Her phone buzzes from somewhere—maybe inside a pocket of her jacket tossed by the door—but she doesn't get up. She's too consumed by self-loathing to even care who might be trying to reach her. It could be Adrian, regaining consciousness, texting Nova. The pang in her chest deepens. Does he suspect yet? Maybe he's lying in some dark alley, still unconscious, or worse—hurt beyond what she did. Her stomach churns at the possibility that he might be severely injured, that she left him there. The guilt tightens around her throat like the chokehold she almost used to kill him.

She forces herself upright, adrenaline spiking. I have to check on him. But how? She can't exactly call him up as Nova, ask if he's okay—nor can she text Adrian and say, "Hey, are you in a hospital bed because the Stranger nearly murdered you?" The absurdity tangles with terror, tears dropping onto the black leather suit in shining droplets. She slams her palm against the couch cushion, frustration boiling up. She has no plan.

The mania is gone now, replaced by a precipitous crash that leaves her hollow and frantic. This is the other side of her BPD episodes: the guilt, the shame, the self-hate, the fear that she's too broken to fix. Her thoughts swirl around condemnation: You're a monster. You're going to lose him. He'll hate you if he ever finds out. But how can she deny it? She nearly ended his life with her own hands.

She hears herself whimper, a weak sound like a wounded animal. She rips off the cowl, yanking at the suit's fastenings with clumsy fingers. The zipper catches, and she curses, tears still falling. She needs out of this second skin, needs to be Nova again—if she can even claim that identity now. Is The Stranger the real me, or is Nova? The question rakes across her mind, and she doesn't have an answer. Her reflection in the TV screen remains ghostly, half-cast in the lamp's glow.

Finally, she wrenches the suit open, flinging it aside in a heap on the floor. She sits there in a sweat-soaked T-shirt she wore underneath, panting, tears streaking her face. The air feels too cold without the leather, sending a shiver through her battered body. Bruises from her fight ache anew, throbbing with each breath. Adrian has bruises too now—ones I gave him. She almost retches at the thought.

She presses both palms to her eyes, trying to quell the onslaught of tears. No good. Memories flash—Adrian's voice, hoarse with rage: "No more hurting Nova!" The Stranger's savage grin as she choked him, blood pounding in her ears. She digs her nails into her scalp, overwhelmed.

She can't shift the blame to some alter ego or mania anymore. She chose to keep fighting, to let that lethal excitement surge in her veins. She chose to squeeze, almost until he stopped breathing. He thinks I hurt Nova. He doesn't know we're the same. She clutches her forehead, inhaling a shaky breath that morphs into another sob.

Time bleeds together in the quiet. The house is deadly still—no footsteps from Mrs. Alvarez next door, no hum of traffic on the street. It's just Nova, alone in her living room, drowning in guilt and dread. She has to move. Anything. She forces her trembling legs to stand, nearly toppling again before catching herself on the armrest. She half-stumbles to the bathroom, flicking on the harsh overhead light that makes her squint.

The mirror reveals a tear-streaked face, eyes swollen from crying. Her hair is wild, matted with sweat and grime from the night's chaos. She steps closer, noticing a trickle of blood from a scrape near her temple. The result of the brawl, no doubt. She touches it gingerly, wincing. Good. I deserve it. The self-destructive thought seeps in, unbidden.

She braces her hands on the sink, panting.

"Adrian," She says to the empty bathroom, voice hitching, "I'm so sorry."

The words echo pathetically off the tiles. She wants to apologize to him, to explain everything, but the notion is impossible—he'd see her as a monster. He already sees the Stranger as a monster. Her stomach twists painfully. If he knew the truth... He might actually kill me next time.

That prospect terrifies her, yet somewhere in the swirl of fear is a kernel of acceptance: maybe she deserves it. Maybe The Stranger does. She grips the sink harder, tears leaking down.

"No, no, no," She mutters, shaking her head. She can't let mania speak for her. She can't let self-hatred consume her. But it's there, roaring in her mind, telling her she's lost any chance at being normal.

Her phone buzzes again in the living room—a faint, persistent vibration. She flinches, imagining Adrian's name flashing on the screen. Or Felicia's, or Jerry's. She can't face any of them right now. She can't face anyone. She's barely holding herself together. Another wave of tears threatens to spill over. She rushes to the sink, splashing cold water on her face, trying to shock her system into calm.

The water drips down her chin, stinging the scrape on her temple. She breathes in, counting to five, then out, counting again—a grounding technique a therapist once taught her. She tries to remind herself that she's Nova Prembrooke. She's not all evil, not all savage. But the memory of her own grin—The Stranger's grin—haunts her. She saw the reflection in Adrian's visor: that twisted expression of delight mid-battle. She can't deny it.

She presses her forehead to the mirror. The glass is cool, offering fleeting relief.

"He's okay," She whispers, trying to convince herself. He must be. I knocked him out, but I didn't kill him. Right? The doubt gnaws at her. She pictures his unconscious body, the way it slumped to the ground. The urge to check on him wells up again, but the phone remains in the other room, silent now. She doesn't even know what she'd say. Hey, did the Stranger give you a concussion?

A shiver racks her. She leaves the bathroom, shoulders hunched as though warding off a storm. The black suit and mask on the floor catch her eye. She nearly kicks them, rage bubbling at her own reflection in the glossy material. Instead, she forces herself to pick them up, stuffing them into a paper bag. She shoves it under the couch in a furious motion, out of sight if not out of mind.

Her body feels drained, as if the mania burned out all her energy. She shuffles to the couch, collapsing onto it. The cushions reek of sweat and old tears, but she doesn't care. She curls onto her side, hugging a pillow. A ragged sob escapes her, echoing in the quiet. She feels like a shattered piece of glass, every fragment cutting from the inside.

Minutes blur into hours. She's stuck in a loop of guilt, half dozing, half jostling awake with nightmares of choking Adrian. Sometimes her entire body jerks as she imagines him grabbing her in retaliation, or pointing a gun at her face. She can't escape the horror flick playing in her mind.

Eventually, the gray light of early morning begins to creep through the curtains, illuminating the living room in a pale wash. She stares at the ceiling, eyes raw from crying. She doesn't feel better; she only feels numb. I nearly killed Adrian. The statement lodges in her chest. She can't outrun that truth anymore. No matter how much she tries to separate herself from the Stranger, she's realized tonight that they're the same person—two sides of her broken self, forever entangled.

Her phone buzzes one last time, vibrating dully against the floor where it must have fallen from her coat pocket. She ignores it again, dread swirling in her gut. If it's Adrian, she isn't prepared to hear his voice. If it's Felicia, she doesn't know what lie to tell. She closes her eyes, letting the tears roll silently. This is her reality now: battered, terrified, and responsible for nearly choking the man she—she doesn't even know if she can say love yet, but she's teetering on that edge.

She wants to vanish into the couch cushions, slip into oblivion, or maybe find a time machine and unmake every choice that led her here. But there's no going back. She's a ticking bomb, a twisted vigilante who can't remember her kills, a woman in love with the same man her alter ego just tried to murder.

And so Nova lies still, tears soaking into the fabric, the light of dawn creeping over her bruised body, an emotional dumpster fire raging behind her tear-stained cheeks. She clutches the pillow as though it might anchor her to sanity.

Nova dreams she's back in that alley, choking Adrian. This time, though, his mask is off from the start, and his eyes—wide with pain—lock onto hers, pleading. In the dream, she can't let go. Her arms won't obey. She can see her reflection in his glassy stare, a hungry grin twisting her lips. She's The Stranger, and there's no stopping the violence that surges in her blood. A weird, hysterical laugh bubbles from her throat, and Adrian's face pales, his lips mouthing her name over and over. Nova—Nova—Nova...

She bolts awake with a strangled cry, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. Her heart pounds so hard that for a moment she can't breathe. The dawn light seeping through the curtains reveals she must've drifted off at some point—her chaotic nap on the couch apparently turned into a fitful doze. Her body is rigid, her fingers clenched around the upholstery as though it's a lifeline. She's panting, drenched in cold sweat, the nightmare already unraveling but leaving a sickly residue in her chest. I almost killed him. I almost killed him.

Her eyes flick around the living room. Everything looks dull and washed-out, every color leached by her sense of dread. The coffee table stands crooked, a lamp teeters at the edge. A trash can in the corner is overflowing with tissues and takeout containers from days of neglect. The place feels suffocating, like the walls are closing in. Her mind thrums with that leftover mania from the dream—an electric restlessness that sets her nerves on edge.

She tries to close her eyes again, but the moment she does, she sees Adrian's face contorted in pain, red creeping across his cheeks. Stop. She scrambles upright, forcing her body to move, to do anything but lie there.

The abrupt motion jostles her bruises. A spike of pain lances her ribs, making her hiss. She can't stay still. She rises, nearly tripping on the crumpled remains of The Stranger's suit bag hidden under the couch. A wave of revulsion slams through her. It's me, she thinks, heart pounding, I'm the one who hurt him. She wants to rip that suit into a thousand shreds, burn it, banish it. But something inside her whispers she might need it again. The thought sends a jolt of panic through her system.

She lurches toward the hallway, needing to escape the living room. Her entire body crackles with restless energy. She can't calm the swirl of emotions that roil in her gut—rage, terror, guilt, heartbreak. Her reflection in the hallway mirror startles her. She sees herself: eyes ringed with fatigue, hair plastered to her forehead. The sight cracks something deep inside. She hates that image, hates that face. She hates the knowledge that behind those eyes lurks a killer, or at least a brutal vigilante who almost murdered her closest friend. I'm not a friend, am I? We're more than that. Were. The swirl intensifies, her breath catching in her throat.

She steps closer, staring at her own reflection as if it's a stranger peering back at her. Her breathing quickens.

"You," She hisses under her breath, "You're the problem. You're broken, you're worthless, you almost—" She can't finish. Her reflection seems to mock her, the mouth twisted in a silent sneer. Is that me or the Stranger? Or are we the same?

Suddenly, she snaps. With a ragged cry, she clenches her fist and slams it into the glass. The mirror cracks, spiderweb fractures radiating out from where her knuckles meet the surface. Pain flares, and slivers of glass fall, tinkling onto the floor. The shock of impact jars her, stinging her bruised hand, but it's not enough to quell the storm raging inside.

She staggers back, breath coming in shallow gasps, eyes wide.

"Oh my god," She mumbles, blinking at the splintered reflection. Her hand stings, and a faint trickle of blood seeps where a shard must have nicked her. She stares at her injured knuckles, her chest heaving. But no tears come yet; she's somewhere beyond crying. What did I just do?

The restlessness doesn't subside. If anything, it grows stronger. You're worthless, you're violent, her mind spits. Look at what you did. She storms down the hall, every step jarring her bruised ribs, but she welcomes the pain. It's real, it's tangible, better than the deafening scream in her head. She reaches the bathroom, where another mirror above the sink catches her reflection again. The same red-rimmed eyes, the same hollow look. Another wave of disgust and self-loathing slams into her.

She can't stop herself. She picks up a stray hairbrush, brandishes it like a hammer, and smashes it into the mirror. The glass shatters with a deafening crack, shards raining into the sink. She half-laughs, half-sobs, adrenaline coursing. Her entire body trembles. The reflection is gone, replaced by broken fragments that distort her face into a nightmare mosaic.

Her breathing is ragged, like she's been running a marathon. She stands there, heart pounding, shards of mirror glittering in the sink under the harsh bathroom light. Her mind churns: What am I doing? But the part of her that's always on edge, the BPD-fueled swirl of chaos, roars for more destruction. She's not in control. She can't calm down. She just wants out of this skin, away from these thoughts, from that monstrous persona lurking inside.

She backs away, leaning her head against the doorframe. The throbbing in her hand merges with the throbbing in her ribs and the throbbing behind her eyes. The house is too small, too confining. She can't bear the silence. She can't stand the screech in her head. Adrian, her mind whispers, and a fresh surge of guilt drags her deeper into the pit. She imagines telling him everything, confessing how she's the one he nearly died fighting. She pictures his eyes, contorting with rage, or worse—betrayal. She shakes her head violently, tears threatening again.

She needs to move. She staggers into her bedroom, throwing open the closet as if it might contain an answer. Clothes tumble out haphazardly, old boxes shift, and she sees a familiar cardboard container: the one she stuffed the Stranger's gear into once before. Another wave of revulsion and compulsion wars in her mind—part of her wants to burn it, part of her is drawn to it like a moth to flame. A shrill sob escapes her.

Grabbing a nearby shirt from the floor, she throws it across the room. A lamp on the bedside table becomes her next target; she sends it crashing to the ground, the bulb bursting in a cascade of sparks. The sudden darkness spooks her, and she slumps to her knees, panting. Her skin feels too tight, her scalp prickling with that unstoppable mania. It's a meltdown, she realizes in a distant, clinical way. She's had them before, but this one's fueled by deeper violence, deeper guilt.

She presses her palms to the carpet, head bowed. Her breathing comes in shuddery bursts.

"Stop," she pleads aloud, though she's not sure who she's talking to.

The Stranger? Herself?

The house is still, offering no solace, only the faint hiss of broken glass settling in the other room. Her tears drip onto the rug, her entire body heaving with sobs. The manic energy morphs into a crushing despair, every emotion dialed to maximum. That's what BPD does—magnifies every feeling until it's too big to handle.

She feels like a frightened animal, cornered by her own thoughts. She wants to run, to scream, to fight, to vanish. Her mind replays Adrian's gasp as her arm tightened around his neck. A fresh wave of horror spikes. She clamps her hands over her ears, trying to silence the echo.

"No, no, no," She mumbles, rocking slightly on her knees.

Time loses meaning as she sits there. The bruise on her side throbs in sync with her heartbeat, and the cut on her knuckles stings with each pulse of blood. Maybe she deserves this pain—maybe it's not enough. She's not thinking straight, tangled in a web of self-destruction. She fights the urge to smash more things, to tear her own hair, to do something drastic. She doesn't know how to let the storm out without hurting herself or others.

At some point, her phone buzzes from somewhere in the mess of the living room. She can't muster the energy to check it. She just breathes, or tries to. In, out, in, out. She wipes her tear-streaked face with trembling fingers. No one can see me like this. The thought triggers a fresh wave of sobs. She tries to be strong for her parents, for her coworkers, for Adrian. But right now, she can't hold the façade. The meltdown is complete, raw, and unstoppable.

A faint spark of rationality seeps in: You need help, it whispers. This is beyond you. She doesn't know if she can muster the courage to admit that to anyone. But she knows she can't keep going this way. She's physically and mentally tearing herself apart. She gingerly stands, knees wobbling. She flips on a small desk lamp that survived her rampage, the weak glow revealing the chaos: clothes strewn everywhere, the lamp she hurled lying in shattered pieces, shards of a mirror in the hallway, the bed unmade and twisted. Her entire space is a visual representation of her mind. Broken, disordered, lost.

She staggers to the edge of her bed and collapses onto it, ignoring the disarray of blankets. She curls into a fetal position, tears drying on her cheeks. The mania that fueled her destruction ebbs just enough to leave behind a crushing exhaustion, but her thoughts still race. She can't stop replaying the confrontation—Adrian pinned beneath her, gasping for air, eyes wide with fear and anger. I did that. I wanted that. The knowledge cuts her deeper than any bruise.

Shivers wrack her. She grapples with the blanket, tugging it over her shaking form. Each ragged breath drags in the scent of dust and unwashed laundry. She clutches the pillow, nails biting into the fabric, eyes staring blankly at the wall. She imagines a million scenarios—Adrian discovering her identity, Adrian turning on her, Adrian never turning on her because he can't piece it together, and she keeps lying. None of them end well in her mind. She's in freefall, no idea how to stop.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. A dull ache settles in her chest, an emotional bruise matching the physical ones. She closes her eyes, breath hitching. I'm so sorry, Adrian. She doesn't know if she's whispering the words or just thinking them. Her consciousness teeters on the edge of another breakdown, tears that threaten to start anew.

Eventually, she drifts into a restless half-sleep, nightmares lurking at the periphery, waiting to pounce. Her body's too fatigued to maintain the meltdown forever, and she slips between states of half-awareness, jolting awake whenever a noise from outside startles her. Each time she does, her heart races all over again, as if she expects Adrian to barge in with a gun, ready to kill the Stranger. Ready to kill me.

And so she lies there, a shattered reflection of the woman she wants to be, consumed by the knowledge of what she's done. The meltdown's aftermath leaves her hollow, adrenaline burned away, replaced by raw guilt and fear. Her BPD wreaks havoc in her head, making every emotion sharper, every fear louder, every shred of hope dimmer.

She clings to the one small truth she can accept: she can't keep going like this. Something has to give—this double life, this mania-fueled violence. She's teetering on the edge of losing Adrian, losing her life, or both. But for now, she's too exhausted to plan. All she can do is ride out the crash, trapped in her broken reflection until morning brings a new wave of anxiety.

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