Nova opens her eyes to a swirl of light pressing against her closed lids. The alarm on her phone hasn't gone off yet—she can tell because it's too early, still quiet, with that faint hush in the air that exists before the neighborhood really wakes up. She should feel tired—she barely slept. But somehow, her mind is instantly alive in a way that's both exhilarating and terrifying.

A tingling restlessness thrums beneath her skin, and she sits up in bed so quickly that the blankets spill onto the floor. Her heart is racing, as if she's had three cups of coffee with no food. She rubs her eyes, blinking at the morning light cutting through the curtains. Normally, she'd be groggy. Normally, she'd stumble into the bathroom and splash water on her face, dreading the day's complications. But today?

Today, everything is bright—too bright. Her thoughts dart around, making it impossible to latch onto just one. She feels like she could run a marathon or dismantle the entire contents of her closet just for fun. It's energy, but it's also agitation. If she doesn't do something, she thinks she might explode from the inside out.

She pushes off the bed, nearly trips over the discarded blankets, and heads straight to her closet. Her reflection in the mirror affixed to the closet door briefly catches her attention. She stares at herself: wide, darting eyes, a certain flush on her cheeks, a half-crazed grin that she can't quite hide. Is this me? she wonders, but the question doesn't last. She has no time for introspection.

Her usual black pants and modest blouse aren't going to cut it today, she decides. There's a half-laugh, half-gasp that escapes her lips, as if a wicked spark of excitement has seized her. She flings open the closet and starts rummaging. Hangers jangle and clothes slip off onto the floor. She bypasses everything dull—she wants color, excitement, something to make her feel as alive as she does in this moment.

She settles on a low-cut top with a bright, floral pattern that's been buried in the back of her closet for ages. She's never felt comfortable wearing it—too loud, too revealing. But today, it's exactly what she wants. She grabs a push-up bra from the drawer, the black lace one that used to make her self-conscious, and slips into it with a flourish. She admires how it feels, how it changes her silhouette in the mirror. A sense of near euphoria floods her when she sees how every move catches her own eye.

She pairs it with jeans that are a bit too tight, the kind that hug her hips and make her feel daring. She stands back to survey herself, hands resting on her waist. I look good, she thinks, turning side to side. The notion that this outfit might attract unwanted stares or attention doesn't deter her. In fact, the thought kindles a flicker of excitement. She's craving the rush, the sense of being noticed. She can almost taste the adrenaline that comes from flirting with the line of danger.

As she moves away from the closet, a swirl of restless energy pushes her to do something. Clean, rearrange, call someone, blast music? Her thoughts shift too quickly to decide. Before she knows it, she's rifling through her phone, scanning her contacts. A friend she hasn't talked to in months? A coworker? No—none of them feel right.

Staying inside feels like a cage. She wants out. She grabs her keys and heads for the door, ignoring the fact that she's left her bed unmade, half the closet spilled out onto the floor. She's halfway across the small living room when she catches another glimpse of herself in the mirror near the entry.

I look unstoppable, she thinks, chest heaving in excitement.

Before leaving, she takes stock of her reflection again. Her pupils seem larger, her grin unstoppable. She leans in closer, noticing how bright her eyes are, how her cheeks are flushed pink. She feels hot, almost feverish, but not sick—more like she's brimming with power. The rest of her day—work, chores, responsibilities—flickers through her mind, but she waves it all away. Right now, she just wants to live.

She steps outside, practically bounding down the path. The morning sun pierces the clouds, warming the pavement. The crisp air kisses her cheeks. She notices everything—the swirl of dust in a sunbeam, the faint echo of a car door slamming two streets over. Even the birds seem to sing in frantic unison. She wonders if this is what normal people feel when they're excited, or if this is something else entirely.

Nova hops into her car, tossing her purse onto the passenger seat. She cranks the engine, and it rumbles to life. She hits the accelerator harder than she means to, squealing the tires a bit as she pulls out of the driveway. The rush makes her laugh out loud.

"Oops," She mutters, not feeling the least bit guilty.

She doesn't have a specific destination. She just wants to go. She zips through a couple of quiet residential streets, then emerges onto a main road. The sense of power behind the wheel amplifies her mania—every intersection feels like a potential risk, every yellow light a challenge. She's aware that she's driving too fast, but the thrill is addictive. She weaves around a slow-moving sedan, letting out a wild little whoop as she does. She's not worried about the potential ticket or the possibility of an accident. Logic is drowned out by the surge of impulsivity blazing through her.

Eventually, her stomach reminds her that she hasn't eaten since the previous night. She spots a small drive-thru coffee stand, the kind that promises sugary lattes and quick snacks. She veers into the parking lot with a sudden jerk of the wheel, tires screeching in protest. The barista inside glances over with wide eyes as Nova pulls up to the window. She lowers her window, noticing the barista's gaze flick to her low-cut top. Nova smirks, leaning forward slightly.

"Hey," She purrs, glancing at the menu. "I'll have an iced mocha, extra whipped cream. And, um...a chocolate croissant."

The barista nods quickly, flushing, "Sure thing. That'll be seven forty-five."

Nova passes a bill through the window, taking an odd pleasure in the way the barista stammers. She can feel his eyes on her cleavage, and it doesn't bother her like it normally would. In fact, it feels good—like a jolt of validation. A voice in her head warns that she's being reckless, but it's quickly overrun by the louder roar of her mania. Yes, she thinks, let them look.

She snatches the coffee and croissant, gives the barista a wink, and peels out of the parking lot, the heat of his stare still buzzing in her mind. She devours half the croissant at the next red light, hardly tasting it, fueled by an erratic hunger.

At some point, reality taps on the fringes of her consciousness. She's supposed to work a shift at Fennel Fields soon. She wonders if she should even bother showing up. A part of her wants to blow it off entirely, but the leftover shred of responsibility in her mind steps forward. She owes them some explanation, or at least an appearance. If she doesn't show, Jerry might call her mom—she gave them emergency contact info when she was hired. The idea of her parents hearing about her no-show rubs her the wrong way, so she decides she'll go. Maybe she'll just roll in, see what happens.

When she parks at Fennel Fields, she's still brimming with that manic energy. She steps out of the car, gaze flicking around to see if any coworkers are arriving. No one's around yet. She struts to the back entrance, her steps louder and faster than usual. Inside, the restaurant is half-lit, with a few staff prepping for lunch. Jerry stands near the bar, clipboard in hand, brow knit in mild confusion when he sees her.

"Nova? You're, uh... early," He comments, looking at his watch.

She's never early. The irony makes her let out a short, strange laugh.

"Couldn't wait to get started," She says, her tone too cheery.

He eyes her outfit, the low-cut floral top, her bright expression. She can practically feel his unease. Good, she thinks. Let him wonder.

Felicia's in the corner, folding napkins, her pink hair pulled into a messy bun. She glances up with a puzzled smile.

"Ooh, look at you, all dressed up!" She teases, "Date later?"

Nova flips her hair over her shoulder.

"Maybe," She says coyly, though she has absolutely no plan for the evening.

She just relishes the attention, the glances and side-eyes. It fuels her, making her feel like a spark thrown onto dry tinder.

She slaps on an apron, though it doesn't really match her outfit. She's still scanning the environment for something—some excitement, some confrontation, anything to keep this manic high going. Everything feels electric under her skin; every second that passes without action is irritating. She notices Adrian shuffling by in his usual quiet manner. She's never paid him much attention, but today she zeroes in on him with laser focus.

"Adrian!" She calls, too loudly, stepping into his path. He almost drops a stack of plates.

"Whoa," He manages, "Hey, Nova."

She leans toward him, lips curving into a mischievous smile.

"Have you always been so quiet?" She asks, batting her eyelashes.

He looks flustered, "Uh, I guess, yeah."

She laughs lightly, stepping back.

"We'll have to fix that," She says over her shoulder, then saunters away, leaving him perplexed.

The rest of the morning shift is a whirlwind. Nova flirts shamelessly with customers she finds attractive, banters with the rude ones, nearly snaps at a coworker who complains about her new outfit. It feels amazing to let loose. She's not frightened, she's not second-guessing every word. She's free. There's also an undercurrent of rage humming just below her skin, like if someone crosses a certain line, she might explode. But for now, the mania manifests mostly as adrenaline-laced confidence, boldness, impulsive charm.

By noon, she's nearly burned through her reserves of energy, but the mania won't let her rest. She feels overheated, dizzy with racing thoughts. The edges of her consciousness flicker. Should I keep going or run away? She considers ditching mid-shift. Her mind is so loud that every voice around her is grating, every movement too slow. She feels the rest of the world can't keep up. She wants to break something, run, scream, do something bigger, wilder.

In the break area, she catches a glimpse of her reflection in a metal tray. Sweat beads on her forehead, her pupils still dilated. Her hair clings to her neck in damp curls.

"You're fine," She mutters under her breath, pressing her palms to her temples.

The mania doesn't loosen its grip. If anything, it tightens.

She knows from past cycles that this can only last so long before she crashes, but the knowledge doesn't soothe her. Right now, the mania fuels her every breath, whispering that she can't stop, won't stop. That voice in her head urges her to lean into the danger, test the limits. What if I do something crazier than ever before? It's tempting, and that temptation is terrifying because she wants it.

She forces herself to step back onto the restaurant floor, heart hammering. Eyes rove over the diners, co-workers, the front door. She imagines leaving in the middle of the shift, taking her car and driving until she runs out of gas. She imagines confronting the next rude customer, maybe throwing something or screaming at them. All these scenarios tumble around in her mind, each more dramatic than the last, and each feels perfectly reasonable in her manic haze.

The mania is a tempest she can't fully control—she's both exhilarated and trapped by it. For now, she keeps up the façade of normalcy, a feral smile playing on her lips, ready to pounce on the next thrill. She's a walking time bomb, uncertain what will set her off, only sure that it's coming. And though part of her recognizes the danger, a bigger part of her embraces it, hungry for the rush that comes when she steps over the line.

Nova busies herself with customers, tries to bury the restless energy in the routine of seating and greeting. But inside, the mania rages on, a fire she's too enthralled to extinguish. She's alive, more than she's ever felt, yet equally aware that if she's not careful, it will devour her whole.

She storms out of Fennel Fields into the brisk evening air, still wearing her low-cut floral top and tight jeans from her shift. The instant she steps beyond the glow of the restaurant's windows, she feels untethered—like gravity no longer applies. The streetlights stretch shadows across the pavement, and the last streaks of sunset bleed out in the sky. She breathes deeply, eyes darting around as though she's searching for something, anything, to latch onto.

Her thoughts race at a hundred miles per hour, and no single impulse is strong enough to anchor her. Her heart thunders against her ribcage, and every cell in her body screams for action. I need to do something, she thinks, her fists clenching and unclenching in restless anticipation. I can't go home. I'll go crazy there. I'm already crazy. She barks out a laugh at her own private joke, drawing a curious glance from a passerby. She doesn't care. Their judgment is meaningless—it barely registers.

She crosses the parking lot, heading for her car, but before she reaches it, she stops short. The reflection in the driver's side window shows a wild-eyed woman with disheveled hair and too-wide pupils. She hardly recognizes herself. Her chest tightens. Who am I right now? The question flits across her mind, but she slaps it away. She presses her forehead against the glass for a moment, eyes fluttering shut. Beneath her palm, the cold metal of the car door feels grounding, but the sensation is fleeting. I need more than this, she decides.

Her gaze slides to a bar across the street—a dingy dive with garish neon lights spelling out "Open."

It's the kind of place she'd usually avoid on a normal day. Tonight, the sight of the half-flickering sign fuels a spark in her chest. She's not sure if she wants to drink or fight or just soak in the energy of strangers. But the idea is tantalizing, dangerous, and so different from the safe routine she usually clings to.

Crossing the road with no regard for the oncoming cars, she steps onto the sidewalk in front of the bar's entrance. A horn blares somewhere behind her, but she only giggles, adrenaline rushing in her veins. Before she can doubt herself, she shoves open the battered door and steps inside.

The interior smells of stale beer and cigarette smoke, though she spots a "No Smoking" sign plastered crookedly on one wall. It's dark, with a pool table in the back corner and a dimly lit jukebox that emits a low hum. A couple of patrons glance up from their drinks when she enters, more out of habit than genuine curiosity. She heads straight for the counter, ignoring the sticky floor that clings to her shoes with each step.

The bartender, a lean man in a faded black T-shirt, arches an eyebrow as she slides onto a stool.

"What can I get you?" He asks, voice gruff.

"Surprise me," Nova purrs, leaning her elbows on the counter.

She lets the neckline of her top dip just enough to catch the bartender's attention. Normally, the idea of performing for a stranger's gaze might unnerve her, but not tonight. I can handle anything, she tells herself.

He smirks, grabs a glass, and starts pouring some neon concoction.

"One house special," He says.

She can't tell what's in it, but it's strong. She downs it with one gulp, the burn sizzling down her throat. The alcohol stirs her mania into a new, heightened frenzy—like tossing kerosene onto an open flame.

When she motions for a second drink, the bartender hesitates. She can see the question in his eyes—Should I really give this woman more?—but he slides it to her anyway. She tosses a bill onto the counter, not even bothering to check how much. The second drink goes down easier, leaving her head buzzing fiercely. Yes, she thinks, this is good. She craves more risk, more intensity.

She swivels on her stool and scans the room. A few patrons play a desultory game of pool at the back. A couple in a booth sips their drinks in silence. The place is lackluster, and a wave of disappointment crashes over her. She wants chaos, danger—life. With a sudden burst of energy, she stands, nearly toppling her stool. She makes a beeline for the pool table.

One of the players, a burly man with a shaved head, glances up as she approaches. She steps right into his personal space, throwing him off guard.

"Let me play," She demands, snatching a pool cue from the nearby rack before he can answer.

He recovers, lips curling into a smirk, "Sure, sweetheart, you got money?"

Her face twists with the reckless confidence of mania.

"I have whatever I need," She declares, tossing another bill onto the nearest table.

She doesn't even look at the denomination, "Rack 'em up."

He shrugs, amused, and begins to set up the balls while his friend—tall, wiry—eyes Nova with mild curiosity. The burly man nods toward her.

"You break," He says, sliding the chalk her way.

Nova lines up her shot with a precision that belies her trembling excitement. She strikes the cue ball so hard that it sends two stripes ricocheting into pockets. A shriek of laughter escapes her—she's not even sure if it's her voice or someone else's. The mania pulses in time with her heartbeat. Her entire body feels hot, tingling. I'm unstoppable, she thinks.

They trade shots, the men's banter dissolving into tension as she sinks ball after ball. She's good at pool—she used to play in college, back when life was simpler. Right now, she's riding that skill on a wave of impulsive bravado. The game escalates as she knocks in another shot. The men mutter curses under their breath, clearly frustrated. She just laughs, spinning the cue in her hands.

Finally, on a tricky angle for the eight ball, she lines up carefully. Her mind crackles with confidence—she's almost certain she'll make the shot. And if she doesn't, she might not care. She draws back and slams the cue forward, the wood vibrating against her palm. The eight ball rolls smoothly across the felt, bumps the corner, and drops into the pocket.

The burly man exhales loudly, stepping forward.

"Well, that's that," He grumbles, looking at the few bills she tossed out.

The mania surges in her. She's not done.

"Double or nothing," She blurts, resting the cue across her shoulders.

The man's eyes narrow, "We said one game."

Nova shrugs dramatically, hips cocked, "You scared?"

He stiffens at the taunt, but his friend puts a hand on his shoulder, "Easy, man. She's just messing around."

The friend looks Nova up and down with a hint of skepticism, "Let it go."

Nova's eyes flick between them, a predator seeking prey. She wants a confrontation. She can practically taste the metallic adrenaline on her tongue. But when they turn away, refusing to rise to her bait, a confusing wave of disappointment and relief crashes over her. She slams the pool cue onto the table, making both men jump, and then she spins around to leave. Fine, she thinks. Next time.

A spike of anger tangles with her euphoria. She hates being brushed off, hates being bored, and hates that no one's giving her the conflict she craves. The lights in the bar suddenly feel too dim, the music too dull. She needs fresh air—no, she needs action. She marches to the door, ignoring the bartender's shout. Probably wants me to pay for that second drink, she thinks hazily. Too late. She's already out the door, stepping into the night.

The street is quieter now, and she's still burning with restless energy. She glances at her car again, but the idea of driving feels suffocating. Instead, she starts walking, arms swinging, chest heaving with each breath. The sidewalk is wet from an earlier drizzle, and neon reflections from closed-up shops waver across puddles. She heads down a block she rarely visits, letting impulse guide her. Maybe I'll find trouble, she muses, barely acknowledging that her mind is seeking out danger like a moth drawn to a flame.

A siren wails in the distance. She doesn't slow down, not even a little. Her mania keeps her forging ahead, steps too fast, too purposeful. She rounds a corner onto a dimly lit side street. A couple of figures lurk beneath a flickering streetlamp—two men, smoking, their posture sharp with tension. They glance at her as she approaches. Normally, she'd feel a rush of caution, maybe cross the street. But tonight, fear is an afterthought. She walks right past them, chin high. They watch her, a curious gleam in their eyes, but they don't speak.

She's disappointed. Part of her wants them to catcall, to do something, anything, so she can unleash the volcanic energy roiling beneath her skin. What are you doing, Nova? The thought is faint, drowned out by the echo of her blood pounding in her ears. She storms down another block, the city's gloom pressing in from all sides. Every so often, she notices a car passing, headlights washing over her. She can't keep still.

Finally, she sees a chain-link fence that borders an abandoned lot. The lock on the gate is broken, the chain lying in a rusted heap. Without hesitation, she ducks inside. The gravel crunches beneath her shoes. There's debris everywhere—old tires, rotting wooden pallets, a couple of rusted metal pipes. She breathes in the stale, damp smell of neglect.

Here, hidden from the main street, she can let loose. She picks up a shattered brick from the ground, weighs it in her hand. What if I just start smashing things? She kneels next to a pile of discarded bottles. The mania surges again, flooding her with the same kind of power she felt behind the pool table. She raises the brick and brings it crashing down on one of the bottles. It shatters spectacularly, shards flying in every direction, catching the faint glow of the streetlamp overhead. She laughs, a sound that's half delight, half desperation.

She does it again, and again, each smash releasing a bit of pent-up fury and too-much-energy.

"Yes!"

She hisses through clenched teeth, smashing until her arms ache and the shards litter the concrete like deadly confetti. She stands over the wreckage, panting, adrenaline thrumming in her veins. I don't care if someone hears, she thinks. I don't care if they come for me. She wouldn't mind if she got arrested or if some thug showed up to beat her down. Right now, the mania doesn't allow her to fear consequences; it demands she burn herself out in a blaze of recklessness.

A shiver runs through her—she's on the cusp of tears and laughter at the same time. The mania is all-consuming, and she knows it can't last. So she inhales the cold night air, closes her eyes, and lets out a raw, unfiltered scream, pushing every ounce of breath from her lungs until she has nothing left. The sound echoes through the empty lot, bouncing off crumbling walls, returning to her like a distorted cry.

For a moment, the scream empties her. She stands in the darkness, chest heaving, hair stuck to her face, tears stinging her eyes. All that remains is the hollow ring in her ears and the sense that she's teetering on the edge of something irreversible. Then her body floods with that manic rush again, reminding her it's not over yet.

She licks her lips, tasting salt. I want more. More danger, more chaos, more intensity. She's not sure how far she'll go, and the wild truth is that she doesn't care. Her own safety, her future—none of it matters in this moment. She's chasing the spark like a dying star, radiant and unstable. One more rush, one more thrill, and maybe she can outrun whatever darkness lurks in the corners of her mind.

Looking up at the vacant sky, she laughs softly to herself. She's done something crazy—she's being crazy—and there's no one here to witness it. And that, somehow, makes the emptiness worse. I need to keep going, she decides, flinging the broken brick aside. She's not ready to crash; she wants to ride this manic high until there's nothing left.

With unsteady steps, Nova picks her way back through the ruined bottles and debris. She slips through the gate again, out into the night. Where next? She has no plan, just raw desire. The mania surges like a hurricane, guiding her forward.

She's a bullet in a spinning chamber, waiting to fire.

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