He was completely, entirely, wholeheartedly, in every sense, panicking.

He couldn’t breathe. There was no physical challenge, no external resistance, but rather it was as if the air simply refused to pass through his lungs. The lack of oxygen burned in his chest, his stomach, his head, nauseating and dizzying, and he didn’t dare let go of the wall in fear of never finding it again. He couldn’t piece together a single coherent thought, like someone had thrown a deck of cards and asked him to catch a matching pair when he couldn’t so much as read the numbers. Not with his stupid mask feeding every detail, every grain in the paper. Every bump in the floor. Every dot on the ceiling. Everything was too sharp, like wearing too strong of a glasses prescription. He hated that mask. He hated that he spent some six years with the Institute desperately trying to restore his vision just to wish he was still blind.

Why was he panicking? He was supposed to be the voice of reason. Institute-raised detective, dissociated from his emotions. He was supposed to play investigator, to interrogate witnesses, to deduce the culprit. The roles were changed. Or perhaps they were blended together. It was an uncomfortable position regardless. Judging someone else’s crime was easy enough. Defending his own innocence was another matter.

Now Vector was the judge. Her lips moved with some question, some accusation that Ace couldn’t hear, or at least, couldn’t register. Filtered like white noise. Maybe Verse’s metaphor made sense after all.

“I’m not a murderer,” Ace repeated. Each syllable was choked out painfully, a strained whisper. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill him.”

He flinched as Vector grabbed his wrists. “Ace,” she shouted, which he finally recognized. He stopped his unconvincing mumbling and looked up. Her narrow eyes were hard. She was close enough that he could make out the faint smudge of makeup over her bruised cheek, the stray strands of paler hair through her fading dye, the slight almond smell that clung to her skin. “I believe you,” she said.

There was a beat. Ace blinked at her.

“I believe you,” she said again, softer. “You’re hyperventilating. Slow down.”

Then Vector eased him to the ground, a protective hand remaining on his shoulder as he curled his knees to his chest. Closing his eyes failed to block his vision; he instead buried his face in his arms. He was still hyperventilating, violently sucking in whatever air he could find. Swallowing, he fought against the panic-reflex and managed out a breath. Vector watched silently as he progressively regained control over the next minute. Once he was convinced he wouldn’t die of self-induced suffocation, Ace lifted his head and leaned it back against the wall, sighing. His heart still pounded, but it seemed to be slowing.

“You know something,” Vector finally said. Her tone was quiet, even. Not accusatory. Just stating a fact. “You didn’t actually do it, I don’t think. You don’t have the resolve for that,” she exhaled. “But you know something. No need to answer that; I could use some plausible deniability. I trust you, Ace. I trust that you know more than I do. They’ll trust you, too, if you lead them. And you can. The Institute’s made sure of that.”

“Yeah,” Ace stumbled awkwardly. “Thanks. Sorry for,” he breathed again, “getting so worked up.”

Vector gave the ever-slightest smile. She stood up. “You’re the detective here,” she said, extending a hand. Ace considered for a moment—the hand and her words. With a nod, he accepted both.