The apartment was cloaked in silence. Newt moved deliberately, pulling the blinds shut on every window. The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only sound as he locked the door, double-checking each bolt. One by one, he turned off the lights, plunging the small space into darkness. He stood in the middle of the room, his breathing shallow, his heart thudding in his chest.The silence was oppressive. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his back against the couch. Three hours. That was the goal. No movement, no distractions. Maybe if he did nothing—thought nothing—the voice would fade.But the stillness only amplified it.Newt's mind wandered. His legs were already starting to ache, the muscles unused to the unnatural stillness. His eyes, though open, adjusted to the blackness. Shapes swam in the periphery of his vision—phantoms of the dark. The floor beneath him felt cold, unforgiving.The discomfort spread, crawling up his spine. His thoughts followed, unbidden. Why does this feel like some sort of punishment? he wondered. What did I even do to deserve this?He clenched his fists. Stop, he willed himself. Don't think. But the voice carried on, picking up the thread of his inner monologue.Newt hated how weak his resolve was. How quickly his mind betrayed him. How long had it been? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Surely not more. The stillness was unbearable, and he could feel the sweat pooling under his arms, the itch at the base of his neck, the weight of the voice invading every corner of his consciousness.His breath hitched. He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands pressing into his temples."Stop," he growled. "Just stop."But it didn't. The voice narrated the tension in his jaw, the sharpness of his nails digging into his skin. It spoke of his frustration, the desperation pooling in his chest. It whispered of the fear he refused to name.Newt yelled, the sound tearing from his throat like an animal in pain. It reverberated through the room, shattering the silence he'd worked so hard to create. His chest heaved as he sat there, his scream fading into nothingness.A knock at the door broke the quiet.Newt froze, his body rigid. Another knock, softer this time. He pushed himself to his feet, his legs tingling from being still too long. His hand hesitated over the lock."Newt?" came a muffled voice from the other side. "It's Teresa. Are you okay?"He exhaled sharply, his hand running through his hair. Teresa. His neighbor. He cracked the door open, the hallway light spilling into the darkened apartment. She stood there, her expression equal parts concern and curiosity."Hey," she said softly. "I heard you yell. Is everything... alright?"Newt hesitated, his fingers tightening around the edge of the door. "Yeah," he said finally. "Just... stubbed my toe."Teresa raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Stubbed your toe? That's what that was?""It was... a really bad stub."Her eyes flickered past him, taking in the dark apartment. "You're sitting in the dark now?" she asked. "You're not... you know, losing it, are you?"Newt felt a flush rise to his cheeks. "I'm fine," he said quickly. "Just... needed some quiet."Her gaze softened, and she leaned against the doorframe. "If you say so. I just... wanted to make sure you're okay. You've been... well, you know."He nodded, swallowing hard. "I'm good. Thanks."There was a pause, and Newt became acutely aware of her proximity. The scent of her shampoo, something floral and sweet, drifted into the apartment. She shifted, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, and for a moment, Newt's thoughts betrayed him.The curve of her lips. The way her tank top clung to her shoulders. He hated that his mind went there, hated that the voice was now narrating it.Her lips curved into a slight smile as Newt tried to maintain eye contact."Alright," she said, stepping back. "But if you need anything... you know where I am."He nodded, mumbling a quick thanks before shutting the door. The latch clicked into place, and he leaned his forehead against the cool wood. His cheeks burned as he whispered, "You're the worst."The voice didn't respond, but he could feel it—looming, observing, waiting for the next thought to betray him.