In the month that had followed Wade's not-so-glorious return to the land of the sober, things had been relatively quiet for a while, if a bit tense for all involved. The mass revelation of the existence of storage still hung over everyone like a bad smell, but it was more than that. For the first time since he'd first started amassing real friends in Haven, Wade once again felt like he was the odd duck out. The feeling was an uncomfortably familiar one-- there was a certain electricity in the air; a dread that something was about to happen.

He remembered it from his days back home, when his (temporary) allies and colleagues would look upon him with apprehension and a vague suspicion, as if dealing with a wild animal that was only chained, never completely tamed. He feels that now, in his own housing block-- the feeling that most of the inhabitants are tiptoeing around him (or, in the case of Hiruma, watching him like a hawk to gauge when-- not if-- he would fuck up again) and it was definitely not a feeling he welcomed.

The noises would be audible even to someone outside of the housing block. They're desperate, scrambling sounds-- sounds of either a struggle or of someone tearing the place apart in an attempt to to find something. If Jesse were to follow the disturbing cacophony to its source, he would find the apartment he and Wade share in utter shambles. Once-made beds are unmade again, drawers are pulled haphazardly out and left there. In the center of all of this mess stands Wade, his hand to his head, his posture tense and almost trembling; the very picture of a man who is at the end of his rope.