Peter's skin felt wrong. Too tight. Too hot. Too itchy. His hands wouldn't stop twitching, fingers jerking and curling into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, his chest too tight, his ribs locking up like they were trapping something inside. Everything was too much. The lights in the tower were too bright, stabbing into his skull like needles. The hum of the electricity in the walls was grating, a high-pitched whine that no one else could hear but was driving him insane. The fabric of his hoodie felt like sandpaper against his skin, every movement making it worse, making him want to crawl out of his own body. His thoughts wouldn't stop racing, overlapping, colliding into each other like cars in a wreck. You're fine. You're not fine. Breathe. I can't breathe. Just calm down. I CAN'T CALM DOWN. His foot tapped violently against the floor, his whole body vibrating with the force of trying to contain it, trying to shove it down, trying to not— Snap. A sharp noise made him flinch—someone dropping a spoon in the kitchen? A door shutting too hard? He didn't know. Didn't care. His hands flew to his hair, gripping hard, tugging, tugging, tugging, but it wasn't enough, wasn't grounding him, wasn't fixing anything. His throat burned. He wanted to scream. His vision blurred at the edges, hot and frantic and wrong, the world tilting, sounds warping into something unbearable, unstoppable. His whole body felt like a rubber band stretched too tight, seconds from snapping, from breaking. The mission had drained him—body, mind, everything. By the time he stepped foot into his shared room, Peter was already shutting down. The exhaustion wasn't just physical—it was everything at once, a heavy, suffocating fog that settled over his brain, pressing in on his chest like a weight he couldn't lift. He didn't bother with his usual nighttime routine. Didn't take off his hoodie. Didn't change into something more comfortable. He just moved in slow, mechanical motions, peeling back the blankets and sinking onto the bed without a sound. The world around him blurred, thoughts slipping away like sand through his fingers. His limbs felt foreign, detached, like they weren't really his anymore. His breathing was slow, steady, but forced—like each inhale was a conscious effort, each exhale something he had to remember to do. He curled inward, pulling his knees close, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie. Everything felt too much and nothing at all at the same time. His body ached, his senses dulled to the point of numbness. He couldn't speak, couldn't think beyond the overwhelming urge to be small, to be still, to just exist as quietly as possible. The sound of running water in the bathroom barely registered. The soft shuffle of movement, the opening and closing of a cabinet. All background noise. Then— Footsteps. The bed dipped slightly as you sat down. Silence. A pause. Then, the shift in the air as realization settled over you. Peter didn't react. Didn't move. He just existed, locked in his own body, waiting—hoping—you would understand.