Jared didn't cut himself that night.
That was intentional.
He sat at his desk.
Lights off.
Room quiet.
Objective: stabilization.
"…control," he muttered.
Not speed.
Not growth.
Control.
He opened a book.
Advanced material.
Complex.
Normally—
He would finish it in minutes.
This time—
He slowed down.
Line by line.
Word by word.
It felt wrong.
Processing speed suppressed.
Efficiency reduced.
Jared frowned slightly.
"…inefficient."
But he continued.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
His mind pushed back.
Increase speed.
Optimize.
"…no," he said quietly.
He forced himself to maintain pace.
But the strain—
Was different.
Not from overload.
From resistance.
Jared closed his eyes briefly.
This is inefficient.
He opened them again.
Kept going.
Until—
His hand moved faster.
Without permission.
Skipping lines.
Jumping ahead.
Jared stopped.
Loss of control.
Silence.
"…again," he muttered.
He reset.
Started over.
Slower.
More deliberate.
Three minutes later—
Same result.
Acceleration.
Automatic.
Jared's grip tightened slightly on the page.
System rejecting constraint.
"…adjust," he said.
But adjustment—
Didn't come.
Because this time—
The problem wasn't speed.
It was habit.
He leaned back.
Exhaled slowly.
Evan's method: control.
My method: acceleration.
Conflict.
Jared looked at his hand.
Still.
But tense.
Can I slow down?
He tried again.
Focused.
Deliberate.
For a moment—
It worked.
Then—
His vision sharpened suddenly.
Spike detected.
Thoughts accelerated.
Too fast.
Jared grabbed the edge of the desk.
Instability returning.
"…no," he said quietly.
But his body—
Didn't listen.
Because the system—
Was already activated.
Residual effect.
From before.
Jared's breathing shifted.
Faster.
Not full overload.
But close.
He forced himself to stop.
Closed the book.
Stood up.
Walked away.
Reset required.
But even as he moved—
His mind kept going.
Analyze.
Optimize.
Improve.
Relentless.
Jared stopped in the middle of the room.
Silent.
Still.
And for the first time—
He recognized something clearly.
This wasn't just ability anymore.
It was compulsion.
A pause.
Then—
A decision.
Jared reached into his pocket.
Touched the blade.
Silence.
Faster improvement.
Higher risk.
His fingers tightened.
Then—
Stopped.
A moment passed.
Longer than expected.
Then—
He let go.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because—
For once—
He hesitated.
Control… incomplete.
Jared exhaled slowly.
"…not enough," he said.
Because slowing down—
Didn't make him stable.
It made him weaker.
And in this system—
Weakness wasn't tolerated.
Jared looked at the closed book.
Then at his shaking hand.
Then forward.
Eyes steady.
"…adjustment failed," he said quietly.
And that—
Meant only one thing.
He would need another method.