It took Ryan a few days to get back into something of a routine. He couldn't let himself relax. He'd hear not just Joe's voice but other voices. A lot of them sounded like they were screaming. It took everything in him not to drown it out with the alcohol calling to him like a siren. He found himself pacing around his apartment like a zombie, feeling like he couldn't risk doing anything if he slept in spurts. Finally, in a flash of logical thinking, he realised that what had happened the night in Beacon couldn't happen again. He'd just been sleepwalking because of the unfamiliarity. That was all it had been.

But after his first night of regular sleep, he discovered he had been wrong to assume this would just disappear.

He was in the bathtub again. His clothes were damp from the dripping shower head above him, but also the large spatter of crimson on his grey t-shirt. He jolted, trying to look at it, but knocked his head on the cold tiles behind him, making him wince. Ryan muttered something to himself. What the fuck had happened? This couldn't be a self-inflicted injury; he would have pain or a wound somewhere. However, he also knew that was far too much blood to be a trivial injury. He didn't have a way of explaining this to Gwen or anybody else. Adrenaline got him to his feet, although he nearly slipped on the smooth surface of the tub. The bathroom door was shut. He kept the cleaning supplies in the bathroom cupboard. He could fix this. Ryan grabbed the bleach and garbage bags. There was no salvaging his shirt, but he could make sure it didn't smell. He was almost manic with his movements. The stain came out but left a faded patch in its place. He gagged at the stench of chemicals but persevered until he'd successfully gotten rid of everything.

"Ryan?" Gwen called through the door. "Are you alright? Why can I smell Clorox?"

"Just… cleaning the tub," he responded.

"At six in the morning?"

"I, uh, I woke up early. I wanted to go for a run, but then I realised I wanted to clean up first." He didn't even sound convincing to himself.

There was a pause. "Ryan, are you sure you're alright?"

He hated lying to her. He really did.

Ryan sighed, pressing his forehead against the door.

"I just… I just needed a minute, Gwen."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He wished he could. He wished he actually felt like he was being his authentic self around her, but he wasn't. If he confessed any of this, she would either run away screaming or have him committed. And she very much had the authority for the latter. But maybe he didn't have to say the words. He opened the door and saw her concerned expression. He was on the verge of tears. He was so tired. He was so scared. Gwen cupped his face, looked him in the eyes, and, at that moment, he broke down. She took him in her arms and hushed him. God, there was so much wrong with him. There was so much he wanted to say but he knew he would take it to his grave. No priest, no shrink, no loved one would ever be ready to hear about his delusions. He half-expected Joe to appear now to mock him, but he didn't, to his relief.

When Ryan came out of his despair, he realised there was only one thing he could do to find reprieve. He had to get to the bottom of this.

"Those who dream by day are cognisant of many things which escape those who dream only by night."

It was an appropriate Poe quote, but not one that Joe recited, rather, one that came to his mind, only affirming that this version of Joe was a product of his own thoughts.

His investigation also meant keeping Gwen at arm's reach in case she was endangered in any way. She wasn't happy about his request for space. He told her it was because of Joe's impending execution, but she clearly knew there was to it. However, she respected it, and that was what mattered. For the next week, he tried a myriad of strategies, from filming himself to sleeping pills to cuffing himself to the bed. He somehow managed to delete every recording (even with fail-safes), resist his medication (probably from being so desensitised to alcohol), and unpick his cuffs or, when he flushed the key down the toilet, break straight out of them. The bloodstains he'd wake up to find were bigger and bigger. The skin on his hands was raw from scrubbing. He swore that even when he'd cleaned everything, he could still see the crimson splatters wherever he went. His body felt weak, and his core muscles seared like they were being overused. Like it was a routine. He was actually running out of casual clothes, and he had to go buy a handful of cheap t-shirts, even though his pessimism expected them to end up in the fireplace along with the rest of his bleached garments.

So, when Gwen called to ask him how he was, he lied and invited her back. Perhaps one night, she would be awake to see him get up and maybe stop him. He doubted it. Somehow, this subconscious version of him seemed elusive enough to be able to get past her. Ryan hated to think it might stem from the same part of him that conjured Joe when he needed him the least.

"That which you mistake for madness is but an over acuteness of the senses," Joe said to him one night when he was sitting up, spiralling about how he couldn't trust himself. "You're just exhausted, Ryan. You're perfectly sane, I assure you."

He rolled his eyes. "Says the figment of my imagination," he muttered.

"I think with a good night's rest, you'll realise just how brilliant you are," Joe suggested with a smile, which made Ryan want to keep himself awake even more.

Ryan didn't lie back down there, too stubborn to let Joe be right about something. He did, however, continue to tease him about his insomnia, commenting on the dark circles beneath his eyes and his jitteriness. But he was only human. So, again, he succumbed to his fatigue and fell asleep. When he woke, he wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he felt… different. Less troubled. Refreshed, even. Like he had nothing to worry about. Joe stood over the bed, smiling and holding a knife out to him like an offer. Ryan took it without hesitation. It was almost like he'd expected it. It was something he needed. They stood together beside the bed, watching the rise and fall of Gwen's chest. He supposed he should cherish it. After all, it was the last time he'd see it.

"So, how do we do this?" he asked Joe.

But Joe simply shook his head and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You already know. You've learned so much since you let me start teaching you."

It felt like he'd been splashed with cold water. What the hell was he doing? Why was he indulging him? The hand holding the knife started to shake, but it seemed to move autonomously. The more he resisted, the stronger the urge was. This was a dream. It had to be. He'd probably fallen asleep supine and started lucid dreaming. The TV had been on before he'd gone to bed. Maybe there was a news report of Joe playing. That had to be it. He was hearing things. He was seeing things. He was delirious. He needed to wake up. Wake up. Snap out of this. Joe wasn't real. This wasn't real. He felt like he was being choked, manhandled, moved around like a rag-doll. The knife inched dangerously close to Gwen, but he didn't want it to. God, was this some twisted metaphor for keeping secrets from her? Why did his mind have to work in such fucked-up ways?

When he woke, a scream escaped his hoarse throat. He was dripping with sweat. But not just sweat. Dirt. Blood. He reeked of it. It wasn't just on his clothes this time but the sheets, too. When he looked beside himself frantically, Gwen was gone.

He didn't need to try to entertain himself with some excuse.

Wherever she was, she was already dead.

And, in sixteen hours, Joe would be, too.