Jericho sat beside Irene in the nurse's office, his tall frame hunched slightly to meet her level. She was silent, her eyes fixed on her knees as if they held answers she couldn’t find. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sweater, and Jericho could sense the weight of whatever was troubling her.

“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked gently. He’d only caught fragments of the story, overheard from other students who were in her English class.

Irene took a shaky breath, her voice barely above a whisper. “Jericho, I think there’s something wrong with me.”

His brow furrowed in concern. “What do you mean?” he asked, leaning in slightly.

“When I was in English… Everything felt overwhelming. It was like I could hear everything. Every whisper, every pencil scratching, every breath. All at once.” Her voice trembled, and her hand drifted to her mouth as she began to bite her fingernail.

Jericho’s stomach twisted at her words. It reminded him of the hospital, of the moment his own senses started to sharpen, becoming too much to bear. But he stayed silent, letting her continue.

“Then… I saw him again,” she said, her gaze distant. “The same man from my dream. He was just standing there, staring at me. It felt so real, Jericho.”

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She ran her hands through her long black hair, her fingers trembling. Jericho kept his voice soft. “And then?”

“I ran to the bathroom,” Irene said, her words faltering. “I felt like I was going to throw up. But…” She hesitated, her throat working to get the words out. “But it wasn’t normal.”

Jericho’s heart thudded. “What do you mean? How wasn’t it normal?”

“It was… this thick black liquid,” Irene stammered, biting her nail again until it nearly broke.

A heavy silence settled between them, punctuated only by the hum of the nurse’s desk fan in the next room.

“Irene,” Jericho finally said, his voice steady but filled with quiet fear, “do you think it’s like what Dad had?”

Her breath hitched, and she looked at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Their father’s memory hung like a shadow over them both. He had left for a business trip and returned a different man—paranoid, aggressive, and plagued by things no one else could see. The doctors called it schizophrenia, but Irene’s words made Jericho wonder if it had been something else entirely.

“No,” Jericho said quickly, trying to reassure her, though his own doubts gnawed at him. “It could just be stress. From the accident. You’ve been through a lot.”

Irene leaned into his shoulder, her silence saying more than words ever could. He rested his chin lightly on the top of her head, staring blankly ahead. Truthfully, he didn’t know what to think. The black liquid, the visions—it was all too strange. Too familiar.

And it terrified him.