Jared didn't sleep.
That was the second mistake.
By morning—
The effects hadn't faded.
They intensified.
Processing speed: elevated.
Stability: decreasing.
"…you look terrible," Iris said the moment she saw him.
"…inaccurate."
"…you have eye bags, your hand is shaking, and you just walked into a chair."
"…minor miscalculation."
"…JARED."
Jared adjusted his posture.
Forced stillness.
But his thoughts—
Wouldn't slow down.
Too fast.
Too many.
Noise increasing.
"…you're not okay," Iris said, stepping closer.
"…temporary condition."
"…you always say that."
"…because it is."
She grabbed his wrist.
Firm.
"…then explain this."
The bandage.
Fresh.
Too fresh.
Silence.
Jared didn't pull away.
Didn't respond immediately.
Because now—
The variable had changed.
Iris: aware.
"…you did it again," she said.
Not a question.
A statement.
"…controlled experiment," Jared replied.
"…YOU CUT YOURSELF."
"…minimal risk."
"…THAT'S NOT MINIMAL."
Her voice echoed louder than expected.
Students nearby turned.
Jared noticed.
Attention rising.
"…lower volume," he said.
"…DON'T TELL ME TO LOWER MY—"
She stopped.
Took a breath.
Then stepped closer.
Lower.
Quieter.
More dangerous.
"…what is wrong with you?"
Jared met her eyes.
Calm.
But slower.
Just slightly.
"…optimization."
Silence.
"…no," she said.
"…yes."
"…this isn't optimization."
Her grip tightened.
"…this is self-destruction."
A pause.
Jared processed it.
But the words—
Didn't align.
Goal: improvement.
Method: effective.
"…results are positive," he said.
That—
Was the wrong answer.
Iris stepped back.
"…you're serious."
"…yes."
Silence stretched.
"…you're going to kill yourself," she said quietly.
"…probability: low."
"…STOP TALKING LIKE THAT."
Her voice cracked slightly.
Not loud.
But real.
Jared paused.
Emotional fluctuation detected.
He didn't understand it fully.
But he recognized—
This mattered.
"…I will adjust," he said.
"…no, you won't."
She shook her head.
"…you won't stop."
Silence.
Because she was right.
Jared didn't respond.
And that—
Was answer enough.
Iris exhaled sharply.
"…I hate this," she muttered.
"…noted."
"…and I hate that I can't just walk away."
Jared looked at her.
Variable persists.
"…you should," he said.
"…shut up."
Silence.
Then—
Something shifted again.
Jared's vision flickered.
Brief.
But noticeable.
He grabbed the desk.
Instability increasing.
"…Jared?" Iris said immediately.
"…fine."
"…you are NOT fine."
His breathing changed.
Faster.
Less controlled.
Overload approaching.
"…you need to stop," she said.
"…cannot."
"…why?!"
Jared looked at her.
Eyes sharper than before—
But strained.
"…because they're watching."
Silence.
"…and if I fall behind—"
He didn't finish.
He didn't need to.
Iris understood.
And that—
Made it worse.
"…this isn't worth it," she said quietly.
Jared didn't answer.
Because to him—
It was.
And that was the problem.