Seven o’clock the following morning found Myrick tumbling out of bed with about as much grace as he had used to get into it the night prior, though he was glad to only feel weighed down with physical tiredness, not emotional now. His morning routine was much the same as it always was: a quick shower with scalding hot water, fumbling himself into one of the suits that he had pressed earlier in the week, and did his best to smooth his hair into a professional side sweep at least somewhat sleeker than its natural wavy mop. Dressing himself was enough to get him moving around, and moving around was enough to begin to rouse his mind from the last bit of sleep that clung to him and made his thoughts sluggish and fuzzy. Once he was at least somewhat presentable, he stepped into his kitchen and snatched a banana from the bowl of fruit he had on his counter—he was still tired and just wanted something soft but filling to munch on for his breakfast, and a banana suited his needs just fine.

He had just polished off the banana and disposed of the peel when his phone rang, and for a moment, he was surprised when Tristan’s number came up on the caller ID and wondered what he was calling him for, but then the previous night came back to him with more clarity and he remembered Tristan was picking him up for work. He answered the call and began to gather the essentials for what he needed for the day.

“Tristan?” he said, as he scooped his car keys off of the coffee table and pocketed them.

“Rise and shine, boss man!” Myrick winced at the enthusiasm in his vice president’s tone, and briefly wondered if he ever ran out of optimism and enthusiasm. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, no, not at all.” Sparing a glance around his living room he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was forgetting something when he spotted the replacement bottle of Tylenol he’d meant to bring yesterday and snatched it off the counter to stuff it in his pocket. “I’m all dressed and ready to go. I’m guessing you’re on your way?”

“Pulling up right now, actually.” Tristan laughed. “Hope you like iced mocha!”

Myrick laughed and ended the call, stepping outside and locking his house behind him. Sure, he was awake, and he’d managed to successfully dress and feed himself before stumbling out of his house, but that didn’t mean that he was, by any stretch of the imagination, a morning person like Tristan clearly was.

Sure enough, there was Tristan’s sleek black car, engine idling and Tristan inside, no doubt ready to face the day bright eyed and bushy tailed. Myrick sighed happily as he opened the passenger door and the scent of coffee filled his nostrils. He stepped in, smiling in greeting as best as he could when he hadn’t fully awoken yet. Tristan was positively beaming as he handed him a large iced cup of coffee with swirls of chocolate drizzled into it. It was probably more calories than most of the things that he’d eaten in the last week, but as he sipped at the sweet, potent drink, he moaned in happiness at its rich taste and decided that he didn’t exactly give a shit about calories at the moment.

“I’d thought to ask you what kind of coffee you wanted,” Tristan gave him an apologetic look. “I just wish I’d thought of it before I pulled up to the drive thru window to order it.” Myrick nearly snorted up some of the coffee he was sipping through the straw, and coughed out a laugh that he wasn’t prepared to have.

“Ah, it’s too early in the morning to be laughing like this,” Myrick gasped when his coughing stopped. “I haven’t had enough caffeine yet!”

“Good thing you have the very thing that can change that in your hands,” Tristan grinned, his eyes back on the road.

Myrick gave a hum in response around the straw, intent on draining the coffee before they got to the office so he didn’t look quite so much like a caffeine addict when he made himself a pot of coffee on top of this. Granted, it was likely just a secret shame of most of the office—hell, most of the business world—but he was certainly not going to be the first one to out himself as someone with a problem.

They chatted amicably for the relatively short ride to the office, and once he’d drained the coffee Tristan got for him, he at least felt like he could operate with all of his brain’s functionality for the day—or at least, until his next cup of coffee, if he was being honest with himself. What was worrying him was that he still felt faintly fevered, like he was too hot all over. While not unbearable, he was certainly uncomfortable, and made a note in his phone to call and schedule an appointment with his doctor to see if he was contagious.

As had been the custom for the past few days that they had been working together, they stepped into the elevator together and rode it to the top of the building. They parted ways once they had reached their destination, Tristan heading to his office on one end of the hall with the promise to let him know when he heard back about the on call employees that were pending a response on their offer, and Myrick sequestering himself in his to prepare for the meetings that he was going to have later on in the day.

He hadn’t even gotten to take a seat in his desk chair before his desk phone was already ringing off of its dock, and three of the lines were blinking angrily at him, all demanding his attention. With a groan, he answered line one, and forced his best bright eyed businessman voice as he began to speak to clients that had appointments with him.

At least he remembered his Tylenol this time, he thought bitterly as he popped two of the capsules.

It was another half hour by the time he was able to tear himself away from the phone long enough to make himself a pot of coffee, and he could tell that his composure had certainly suffered for it by the end of the last phone call he had been stuck on. He should have probably not cut off the client when they asked about the rates of his employees (for the fourth time in a phone conversation that had already taken ten minutes longer than it had needed to) but in his defense, they could have not been so stupid. He winced at that thought—his mood had suffered even more than he had thought.

Noting how sour he had grown in the first hour of his work day, he opted to grab the canister of his high quality coffee beans that he saved for special occasions—or to help him work through particularly rough days—and measured them out in his coffee maker, situated at the side counter across the room from his desk and there, ostensibly, for guests and clientele to use. And they did—just not as much as he did. He snapped the lid off of the canister and breathed in the aromatic blend: a delicious creme brulee roast with a sweetly rich and bright scent that filled his nostrils, bought at a lovely little coffee shop while on a business trip out of state.

His mood improved even before he exhaled his next breath, as he set about making himself a pot, measuring out the grounds and filling the pot with water from a filtered pitcher. He flicked the switch on, leaning against the side of the counter and listening to the familiar, soothing sound of the coffee pot gurgling to life and preparing his drink.

Even as he looked forward to the coffee, and the comfort and energy that he would no doubt glean from it, his whole body felt off-kilter, like he hadn’t fully recovered from his panic attack the previous night. His back was sore, though that was to be expected from how sick he’d gotten at the restaurant, and if that was all that had felt off about him, he might have been able to just ignore it and deal until he could go home and rest. But there was this peculiar, off-balance feeling, like he was leaning but wasn’t, and he couldn’t place why he was feeling the way that he was. And he was just so warm, he noted as he tugged at the collar of his shirt. His exhaustion wasn’t helping, though he couldn’t place precisely why he felt as tired as he did. He had slept, though it didn’t feel like it, and it was almost as though his limbs were weighed down with lead for how lethargic and heavy he felt.

He wanted so desperately to take off his jacket and roll up the sleeves of his shirt, but he had a meeting starting in a little over half an hour, and he had to keep his suit intact for it. And the journalist interview that he had scheduled for today…and all four of the client appointments that he had after lunch. With a groan, he rubbed at his temples, strongly debating on taking two more Tylenol capsules in the vain hope that they would help him feel at least a little more normal.

His day had barely started, and it was already long.

Still, he coped, and even as he fixed himself a cup of that delicious smelling coffee in preparation for his day, he managed a smile when there came a knock at his door, signaling that the first of the people that were attending this meeting was arriving. When they barged in the door before he could answer it, complaining about their day without greeting him, that smile grew significantly more forced, but he managed to keep it there. He took a seat at his chair and took a deep breath, counting down the seconds until the meeting was over and trying not to think about the fact that it technically hadn’t even started yet.

It was absolutely going to be one of those days.

Once everyone had actually shown up for the meeting, it went surprisingly smoothly, and had even ended a few minutes early, much to his delight. Pleasant as it was to have a few more minutes to himself before he had to address the next item on his agenda, it did nothing to make him feel less like he was burning with fever. He made a mental note to grab some cold medicine to try and combat whatever bug it was that he had caught to make him feel the way that he was feeling. With the end of the first meeting of the day came a chance for him to have another cup of coffee—or two, in his case, draining his first cup in four long gulps. The first meeting hadn’t been anything of incredible import, merely the morning meeting they had twice a week to assess how the company was progressing on its current projects and where there was room for improvement. It was easily the most straightforward meeting that he would have to attend today.

The interview to take place within the next half an hour or so was one that had been scheduled a week ago with a journalist that had requested to interview him specifically for an article about Omegas in the business field. He’d really only agreed to it because he knew of the publication that the journalist worked for—Subversive Submission was an Omega-centric publication that helped fight stigmas surrounding Omegas—not the least of which was the idea that they were too weak or too submissive to be effective leaders—while also frequently working with charities to help keep Omegas independent and safe, including funding shelters for those who were displaced or those with disabilities that needed assistance. One such charity was what had helped him get his first temp job when he was at his lowest point, so any way that he could give back, even if it was just for a fluff piece about how great Omegas can be in leadership positions, he was more than happy to do so.

Still, he couldn’t help the way that his skin tingled in anxious anticipation, wondering what on earth the interviewer was going to ask him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was going to need to work even harder to exude an air of calm professionalism than normal for the interview; he was clearly not feeling entirely himself, and he could already tell what energy he had gleaned from the copious amounts of coffee that he had consumed was already starting to burn out. It was motivation enough for him to reach into the cabinet below the counter, pull out his oversized thermos, and pour the remainder of the pot of coffee into it along with a generous amount of sugar. No sense in any pretense at this point; he was going to need more than a coffee cup.

To pass the time, he pulled up his pending approvals and began to look over them, arbitrating over each that he felt he could make a solid decision on, until his phone went off again—this time from the secretary’s line.

“Mister Thomas, Miss Wilson is here to interview you.”

“Please bring her in, thank you.” He sighed softly into his thermos before taking another drink as he flicked the button to cut the line. Setting his thermos down on his desk and straightening his jacket, he took a few deep breaths to mentally prepare himself for the interview. A few moments later, there came a quiet knock at his office door, and he stood to answer it. “Ahh, thank you for coming, Miss Wilson,” he greeted the smartly dressed woman that stood at his doorway. She inclined her head with a professional smile, adjusting her glasses with the hand not carrying her briefcase.

“And thank you for accepting my request for an interview, Mister Thomas,” she said politely as he led her into his office, gesturing for her to take a seat at the chair in front of his desk while he sat behind it. “I have to admit, I was afraid that you would be too busy for one.”

“You happened to catch us just as we finished up one of our major projects, Miss Wilson.” He said with a smile, resisting the urge to take a drink of coffee; why was it so difficult to just be a professional today? He felt a spark of agitation at the thought but managed to quell it as he folded his hands in front of him. “I always like to take time to answer questions people might have—anything I can do to help the public realize that having an Omega at the helm doesn’t hurt business, it is a worthy investment.” She smiled brightly.

“Then we’re of the same mind in that regard,” she rummaged in her bag and pulled out a tape recorder. “I’m recording the conversation starting now, so I can most accurately quote from the interview for the article.” She set the recorder on his desk, in plain sight, and tapped the red button to start the recording function. “I figured that was a no-brainer, but I like to do all I can to have full disclosure with people I interview, so they’re never wondering what’s going on.”

He nodded in understanding. “I’m glad of it—transparency is something of a rarity in some circles, but I’m glad that you’re taking such important steps.”

“Of course,” she said with an emphatic nod. “I’m a little new to all this, so I’m a bit nervous—pardon if I stutter or repeat a question.”

“You have nothing to worry about—we’re all new once.” He laughed and took a drink of his coffee. At least the interviewer was nice, that was a relief. He could go through this, and perhaps take a nap on his lunch break. Maybe that would be enough for him to regain some of the energy that he seemed to not be able to hold onto today. Now he was sure he was coming down with something.

“Thank you.” She smiled and leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Right then,” she cleared her throat. “Let’s begin, yes?” He nodded. “Good, good. Now then, you’ve been the CEO of Principium Finis Industries for the last two years, and you’ve managed to bring the company seemingly back from the brink.” She started with a soft ball question—typical for an interview such as this. “How did you manage to accomplish such an impossible task? Nearly every market expert in the industry was convinced that Principium Finis was, well…finished.” He had to refrain from twitching the corner of his eye at the reference to many of the headlines that had all thought they were their own brand of clever back when he had started out in the company—‘Principium Finis is Finito?’ ‘Principium Finis is Finished!’ All different brands of the same message that he had fought desperately to prove wrong—and nearly entirely fueled out of spite for those headlines.

“I wish I could say that it was solely on my own shoulders, but that would be doing my team and my employees a criminal disservice.” He set his thermos down. “The people that I have under my employ are some of the most tenacious and creative individuals I’ve had the pleasure of working alongside and leading. For however many problems I observed in the company on my way up, my employees have found an elegant and cost effective solution for them. Though, I imagine you want an answer specifically to how I managed to lead the company out of turmoil.” He took another drink of his coffee. “I had every intention of working my way up to the top, and I knew that I had to be observant about the road there. I took note of every problem I saw in every department, paid close attention to every sinkhole the company was losing money from, so that when I made it to a position where I could do something about it, I knew exactly what the issues were.”

“That’s…rather to the point, but the results are hard to argue against.” She noted, tapping her chin in thought.

“I’d tried to bring up the issues beforehand as well, though management had an...alarming knack for making issues someone else’s problem while not giving them any tools to succeed in fixing them.”

“From former employees’ accounts, that was a large part of why many of them had left,” the journalist commented idly. “How difficult was it to persevere against such indifferent management?”

“It was a constant struggle just to get through more than half of our projects without there being some roadblock that we had to overcome in some way that management would either approve of or just not outright refuse to allow us to do. More often than not, the solution we came up with was one that management just didn’t hate, so we ran with it before they could change their minds.”

“Sounds almost like you had to fight your way to the top.”

“Tooth and claw.” They shared a sensible chuckle. “Honestly, I managed to luck out; more than half of the board were simply retiring by the time I was poised to take over as CEO, and what few holdouts there were left on principle.”

“Because they were loyal to the former CEO?”

“Because I’m an Omega.” He grimaced. “Many of them were convinced that my taking over would be the death of the company and didn’t want to watch the ship sink.”

“So you rose to the position with almost no support?”

“None,” Myrick sighed and drank more of his coffee. “Just as well; it was a fresh start, a clean slate. For the company, and for myself.”

“Has it been easy to find people that you can rely on in the company?” He considered the question for a moment, unsure of what to say. He relied on a lot of people to get things done, and they had yet to let him down in that regard, but was that a good enough answer?

“When I looked out to each of the departments after I took this position,” he began slowly after another moment to contemplate his words. “I saw several leaders present themselves, many of whom realized the flaws in the systems that the company had in place at that time. So I reached out to them, let them know that I supported choices and changes that would benefit their teams, that would make their jobs more efficient.” He leaned back in his chair. “Even team leaders need to know that someone has their back and their best interests in mind. It does wonders for their work.” He shrugged. “I may be their boss, but I’m still on their team. I don’t look for problems so I can take things out on my employees; I look for solutions that can ease their burdens.”

“Is that why you recently promoted one Tristan Chefant to be your new vice president?” She tilted her head. He flinched, if barely, though he should have guessed that this was where the conversation was going to go.

It always did.

“Mister Chefant was chosen because he was the best man for the job.” Myrick fell back to a generic, though no less true answer, hoping that that would be the end of it. “He has tenure leading the marketing team through several successful campaigns—”

“And he’s an Alpha,” the journalist supplied, as though that was helpful. “Surely showing the world that Alphas can listen and follow the commands of an Omega played a part—”

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” he cut her off, his tone as candid and calm as he could manage when she was, however inadvertently, undermining him and his leadership skills—diluting them down to, ‘the Omega wants his turn in the spotlight,’ and he didn’t much care for where the conversation was going. “There are laws in place that stop me, as well as any other employer from hiring or promoting someone based on any demographic that they have no control over—such as what someone presents as when they come of age.” He gave her a pointed look, and she withered ever so slightly under it. “Mister Chefant being an Alpha has nothing to do with why he was offered the position, and his status as such has not affected his work in any way.” He smoothed his hands over his pants. “I have complete confidence it will stay that way.”

“Yes, of course,” she said in a voice that only broke slightly, though it was enough for him to note. He must have made it clear enough to her that this was where the conversation ended, because she cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “Ah, one last question then, if you’ll indulge me.” He nodded. “What are your goals for the company?” Probably the safest question she could ask, and a decent enough place to bring the conversation to its conclusion, though his mood had soured considerably.

“Without tipping my hand too much,” he said, rolling his shoulders, “the company is always looking to expand, and there are a great many exciting projects on the horizon.” He smiled thinly. “I hope our clients look forward to it.”

“I see,” she smiled in an almost guilty way, as if she had realized that she had tried too hard to push a narrative that was not welcome in this space, as far as he was concerned. “Thank you so much for your time, Mister Thomas.” She leaned forward, plucking the recorder off of his desk and switching the button off. “I think this was an interesting interview, to say the least.”

“I hope you got enough for your article.” He said, a polite rewording of, ‘I’m not answering another question from you so kindly see yourself out,’ and she must have caught on, shaking his hand and beating a hasty retreat, closing the door behind her. He heard her heels clacking against the floor outside in a brisk walk, and he breathed a sigh of relief, rubbing at his temples and wondering if it was too soon to take more Tylenol.

He was going to need more coffee either way.

Thankfully, lunch was taken in solitude, and more Tylenol was taken with lunch because the hell with it. It was apparently going to be the day that tested whatever nerves managed to survive yesterday’s emotional breakdown. He’d debated on going to have his lunch with Tristan to have conversation that he would actually enjoy for the first time since…well, since the last time he had talked to Tristan today. He opted to just stay in his office and enjoy what quiet he could get before the remainder of his day was completely filled with noise, meetings, and a gaggle of other things that he would just have to deal with, so he took his quiet moments where he could.

It was when he had finished up his lunch and began to work in preparation for his next meeting when he heard someone approach his door. He had a sudden urge to just hide under the desk and pretend that he wasn’t there but knew how completely baffling and unprofessional that would be on his part. So, he forced the urge down. The agitation and need to hide dissipated when he realized he recognized the brawny mass on the other side of the frosted glass of his door.

“Hey, boss?” He heard Tristan on the other side of the door call out as he knocked. “You got a second?” Myrick spared a glance at the clock on his computer, pleased that he still had about fifteen minutes until his next appointment.

“Come in, I’ve got time,” he called while drinking the last of his water from lunch. He was glad for a distraction, something that would let him think of something other than work and how tiring everything was to him today.

“Thanks, boss,” he grinned as he stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “Sorry to bug you, I know your schedule is packed today.”

“No, no, by all means,” Myrick waved a hand, an easy smile forming on his lips without him even thinking about it. He seemed to be doing that with increasing regularity whenever Tristan was around, though he pretended not to know why that was the case. “I could use a friendly face.”

“I’ve got a bit of business to handle, I’m afraid,” he smiled apologetically.

“Well, that is what we’re here for. What have you got for me?”

“Mostly just some documents that need your approval, honestly.” He slid a folder he’d tucked under his arm out, and Myrick was surprised that he hadn’t seen it before. “They’re nothing too taxing, just look them over, and if they look good, sign off on them so I can get ‘em off my desk.” Myrick nodded, and Tristan walked closer to the desk to hand him the documents.

As Tristan neared his personal space, Myrick’s head suddenly felt...light, like he had a sudden rush of blood that his body couldn't adjust for. He was aware Tristan was speaking—he was discussing the fact that some of the materials that were used could be purchased wholesale cheaper from a different manufacturer with the same quality at half the cost, but his words seemed far away, and eventually faded, overcome from the rushing of blood to his ears. He was suddenly very glad to be sitting, for he felt wrong, like he was nauseated and warm and it was suddenly very hard to swallow around his swollen tongue. Breathing was doable but difficult with the air suddenly feeling too thick, clogging his lungs like tar.

Tristan had noticed, Myrick realized when he looked up from the paperwork he was being shown. Tristan had stopped talking and was regarding him with a cross between concern and something darker that he couldn't place. Something that frightened Myrick and made him feel vulnerable in ways he never wanted to feel, especially not in the presence of an Alpha. Myrick cleared his throat and pushed his chair back to make space between them, and that seemed to be enough to break whatever it was that had suddenly held him in its grasp, because the air seemed a little less thick, a little more breathable. He hadn't experienced something like that in a long time, though what caused it eluded him.

“Are you all right, sir?” Tristan said, face crinkled in worry. He made a move to step around the desk, likely to see if there was something he could do to help his boss, but Myrick was suddenly in desperate need of space and distance and solitude, and so he stood sharply, suddenly enough to knock his chair back. Tristan raised a brow, surprised but making no move to get closer; he was an Alpha, sure, but this was his boss.

“I-I'm, ah,” Myrick swallowed around his tongue, around the lump in his throat. “I'm feeling a little fevered, sorry.” He sucked in a breath and tried to move past Tristan, but nearly yelped in surprise when he stumbled, and Tristan caught him effortlessly against his chest. Suddenly the overwhelming heat that was encompassing him was scorching, nearly making his skin feel like it was being burned wherever the two of their bodies had met.

Tristan, for his part, didn’t force him to stay, even helped him straighten up, but as he continued to stare, his eyes grew dark, the bright irises nearly being eclipsed by his dilated pupils. His breathing was far from labored, a far cry from how difficult breathing was for Myrick, but the Omega noticed the way his breath was coming in heavier, in a muted pant, almost like he was trying to breathe deeper than normal.

“Myrick,” Tristan said, his voice strangely even deeper than it usually was. Myrick was suddenly zeroed in on his voice, on what Tristan was saying, like it was the only thing that existed in the world. He’d heard about something like this—an ‘Alpha voice’ that compelled Omegas to listen to their every word when they used it. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s bothering you. Tell me what’s wrong.”

His mouth opened of its own accord, answering for him without thought or input on his part. “I don’t know.” He rasped, taking a step back, dizzyingly aware that he was too close to the Alpha. “I don’t feel well, excuse me.” Tristan looked like he was going to say more, probably ask if he could do something to help, but Myrick needed to leave—now. He knew Tristan well enough to know that he wouldn’t force anything on him, but that didn’t mean he wanted to have to sort through this in front of him.

He gave the Alpha a wide enough berth as he side-stepped him so that he wasn’t within touching distance of him, deliberately lengthening his stride as he briskly walked out of the office so that he might reach the elevator that much faster. His feet felt unsure, and by the time he was calling the elevator, he was nearly stumbling, his grace having nearly been spent. He couldn't place why he was feeling so disoriented and why it had only started when Tristan had gotten close to him. He knew of only a few possible explanations, though he didn't want to consider them right now; right now he needed to be away, he needed to be home and safe and alone to figure himself out.

He was grateful that Tristan hadn't followed him—or maybe he had tried but the elevator doors had closed before he got to him. Either way, he was glad that when the elevator doors closed, they closed him in the elevator alone. Solitude was nice, though the elevator felt cramped, confining, and it took everything in him not to pace like a caged animal. When the elevator was brought down to the parking garage he gasped at the rush of fresh air and rallied himself into stepping out into the more open space, grateful for the crisp outdoor air filling his lungs and clearing his head, if only marginally. By the time he made it to his car, he was feeling considerably more like himself, though he continued his course home; so what if he had a half-day today? He worked on a salary, he could stay late tomorrow, he reasoned as he turned the key in his ignition and began his journey home. Besides, he didn’t exactly have a boss to answer to, so who was going to admonish him for it? Being the CEO of a company had to have some sort of benefit in times of difficulty, after all.

The traffic in the streets was blessedly sparse, and the usual hour-long commute from work to home was nearly halved. A distant part of him marveled at how leaving work a few hours early made such a difference, but it was a quiet, half-subconscious thought compared to the racing thoughts that were swarming in his head around what happened at work as he parked in his garage and stepped inside his home. Even with the fogginess and heat gone from his mind it still felt as though he was watching what he was doing as an outside party, as though he wasn't the one making decisions for himself, and letting his body just do what it needed to do.

He toed off his shoes and made his way into his kitchen, hands shaky as he filled his electric kettle with water to put on for tea. It didn't matter that he wasn't sure what was affecting him; tea always helped calm him down, at least enough for him to look at the bigger picture. As the kettle gurgled and wheezed, heating his water, he racked his brain for anything, any slight difference in his routine that might have triggered this...this feeling in him that he wasn't sure what to do with. Leaning against the counter, he ran his hands over his face, deciding that he needed to be comfortable—far more comfortable than he was in this suit—to think a little more clearly. He wasn't sure what made him decide that, but his feet were already carrying him to his bedroom before he had the chance to consider why he felt the way that he did.

As he rummaged in his dresser for something comfortable, suddenly his suit felt too rough, too scratchy on his skin, and it needed to be off of him—now—and even as his eyes settled on a pair of soft pajama pants, his hands were already working on his buttons and zippers, practically tearing the articles of the suit off of his body and letting them lie wherever they fell and thought nothing more of them. He pulled the pajama pants out of the drawer and slipped them on, sighing at the cool fabric sliding against his skin. He felt better, marginally, but why was he feeling this way at all?

An alarm sounded from his phone, and it was suddenly too loud, the noise too grating on his nerves. He scrambled to turn it off when he read what was on the alarm's alert screen, and suddenly everything horrifyingly clicked into place.

'Renew your suppressant!'

The words were there, on the screen too bright for his eyes to want to look at, but he couldn't tear them away. Even as he turned the alarm off and silence descended upon the house once more, save for the faint gurgling of his kettle off in the kitchen, he didn't move. His suppressants were wearing off? He supposed that made sense—he thought maybe he'd miscalculated a day, that would make sense. Relief at realizing what was going on coursed through him—all he needed to do was take another of his suppressants, wait for them to kick in, and feel right as rain by tomorrow. That's all this was. He padded over to his medicine cabinet in his en suite bathroom, happy to know that this was all it would take for him to feel normal again. He opened the cabinet, eager to just take what he needed and rest, a shaky hand grabbing at the box that held the sleeve of his suppressant pills. Pulling the sleeve out, his relief was palpable as he turned the packet over—

And saw that all of the sleeve packets were completely empty.