"Rise and shine, Mr. Allen."

Lying flat on his back on a cold tile floor, Barry grimaces. There's a monstrous headache behind his eyes, shouldering aside every attempt to think about anything other than the pounding pain. "What do you want?" he slurs, more tired than angry. He doesn't move to get up, focusing on keeping his breath even and his panic low. He's already made his move; he has to trust that his friends will respond to it.

When he confronted DeVoe in his own home, he should have seen the inherent advantage. But he was too focused on something (bright-white-light-noise) and didn't scan the room properly. Instead he drifted closer to DeVoe, a mongoose in a snake den, unaware that his quarry was two steps ahead of him and primed to strike. The only giveaway was the flicker in DeVoe's voice, the tiniest lilt of entitlement creeping into his final words. Without waiting for the takedown, Barry smashed the panic button on his emblem a hundredth of a second before a staggering array of darts punched a line down his spine.

The venom acted so quickly he couldn't draw his next breath. Paralysis sank its teeth into his back and legs, bringing him down. His chest would not move; he strained with every ounce of strength left to him to arch off the floor. A terrible wheeze finally fractured a rib to break through, but it wasn't enough. "Surrender," DeVoe intoned, "or suffer."

It went on for the better part of fifteen minutes, a herculean struggle. DeVoe watched him, occasionally indulging him in the time: "Four minutes." "Eight minutes." "Twelve minutes."

They didn't make it to sixteen.

Groaning softly, Barry reaches up to press both hands against his forehead, his brain attempting to batter-ram its way out of his skull. "What do you want?" he repeats, voice crackling like gravel underfoot. The paralysis is gone, but its absence only makes him shake in place, violent tremors that snag more of the fight from his limbs.

"I want to live," DeVoe replies, close enough that Barry opens his eyes. What he sees is alien: green lights in a featureless room flushing the visage of a pale figure sitting in a hovering chair. Barry blinks, blurry vision yielding few details, but he can't make his eyes focus. Even though DeVoe leans over thoughtfully, he shuts his eyes.

The next time he comes to, he feels stronger. Fire like rage courses through him, overcoming the dull ache in the back of his skull. With painstaking ferocity, he shoves himself upright. "DeVoe," he bites out, balancing precariously, nausea threatening to steal what lying still for hours hasn't already: his steadiness, his show of strength. "DeVoe."

"That's Professor DeVoe, Mr. Allen," DeVoe corrects, disconcertingly close. Barry turns to face him and loses his balance, hitting the floor. "I have to admit, I experienced a moment of – trepidation, when I calculated how much venom it would take to subdue you," he muses, less than six feet away. Barry lies flat on his back for a moment, reaching up to press his hands to his forehead. "Off by a milligram, and this would be a failed science experiment."

With a growl pooling deep in his chest, Barry plants his hands on either side of him and forces himself upright. He doesn't stop until he's standing, shaking in place but holding his ground. "What do you want?" he snaps.

"I thought that was obvious," DeVoe explains coolly, haven't you been listening? Barry ignores the prickle of unease in his stomach, like he should remember. "I want to live," DeVoe drawls. He smiles; it isn't reassuring. "I need your Speed Force."

Barry doesn't have the strength or coordination to Flash yet, but he advances on DeVoe steadily. DeVoe holds his ground. "I thought you were smart," Barry counters, halting just in front of him. The power radiating from the chair makes his torso go numb, but he doesn't step back, even as it trickles up his neck, attempting to undo everything that the Speed Force has set in stone. "Everyone else who tried to take it? Died."

"Oh, but that's not true." Barry takes another step towards him and lurches away involuntarily as a jolt of electricity shunts him back hard, a punch to the chest. "Eobard Thawne is still alive. On principle, so is Savitar – through you. Even Zolomon had his turn at infinity, chasing down other speedsters. Your friends tried to kill them. Your friends failed. And you, Mr. Allen – you were the weakest link of all. You brought them all down with you." Barry tries and fails to stand as the pressure kneels on his back, a heavy, irresistible thing. His knees hit the floor hard. "It is a mercy to them to remove you from the equation."

Barry plants his fists on the floor, trembling. He struggles to push himself upright. "You shouldn't have kidnapped me," he spits. "I didn't have a reason to go after you before. Now I do."

"Mr. Allen, you were going after me before you'd seen my face," DeVoe reminds. "You will continue to fight me to your last breath." The pressure increases tenfold. Barry lets out a grunt, flattening against the floor. "Desist, and we can negotiate."

Barry snarls against the tile. The pressure on his back is unbearable. "All right," he snaps. The pressure alleviates. The second Barry gains an opening, he uses his Speed to lunge for DeVoe. He surges forward, grasping DeVoe's wrist, intending to yank him out of the chair. Instead, he freezes in place, completely paralyzed, a familiar panic exploding in his chest when the next breath will not come.

"Your entire body is made of Speed," DeVoe tells him in a punishing monotone, drawing it out. "You are a lightning strike waiting to happen." With idle unconcern, he uses his opposing hand to pry Barry's from his wrist, keeping it trapped in a vice-like hold. "I could kill you like this," he drones. "You would suffocate and pass out in about two minutes. Brain damage would begin after four. Inside ten minutes you would be unrevivable." Black spots fan across Barry's vision. He can barely hear DeVoe finish, "Is this really the way you want to die, Mr. Allen?"

Then he is thrown back half a dozen yards, crashing onto his side and wheezing harshly for breath. Clutching his throat, he curls up into a partial ball, trying to smother the panic building in his chest. "The Great and Terrible Flash," DeVoe muses. "You are alive and well in a century. I am dead, another villain vanquished by your heroic efforts."

He glides forward in his chair. Barry scrambles back a few steps, hating himself for his instinctive fear, his instant repulsion. "The victors write the history books," DeVoe recites. "I will be victorious." He pauses feet away, folding his hands on his lap. "I want to live. You have the one thing that will allow me to defy the odds and survive this catastrophe."

"My Speed." Barry's voice sounds serrated, raw.

"No." Barry frowns, forcing himself upright, ignoring the abominable pain in his chest. "Your Speed Force."

"What does that even mean?" He knows the Speed Force, knows it like his own soul, but – "You want to go there?" He huffs. It isn't fond. "Okay. I can take you to the Speed Force."

DeVoe stares at him, unblinking, for a long time. At last, he has to avert his own gaze, the unsettling feeling in his chest too strong to ignore. "A blood transfusion, while revitalizing, will not cure a person with renal failure," DeVoe explains. "I am not looking to prolong my own suffering. I am looking to cure it." He glides closer. Barry retreats backwards at the same pace. "Speed is useless without context, Mr. Allen. Yours is powerful, but only because of the Speed Force. I could take all of your Speed today and still not survive the year."

Barry's back hits a wall. He tries and fails to Flash away, letting out a snarl of pain as he slides across the floor. "Couldn't give it to you even if I wanted to, DeVoe," he breathes, pushing himself upright and putting distance between them. "It's not a thing—"

"It is an entity." The way he says it makes the hairs on the back of Barry's neck stand. "When I look at you, Mr. Allen, I don't see a man with an extraordinary ability. I see a man with an extraordinary connection. You misunderstand the relationship that is most important to you. How have you survived this long, exactly?"

"You're the genius, you tell me," Barry says, surreptitiously looking around the room. There are no doors, windows, or even walls – it's a hodge-podge of green and black tiles. "What is this place?" he deflects.

"My study," DeVoe replies. "Free from distractions." His fingers play idly across the arm rests of his chair as he explains, "Your connection is what I want. But I have a little problem. I cannot access the Speed Force on my own."

Barry wants to laugh, but his breath is too thin. "You want me to take you there. Okay." He dares to step forward again. "I will take you to the Speed Force, DeVoe."

"And ensure I drown in eternity," DeVoe says, waving a hand. "Not interested. I am also not interested in torturing compliance out of you. Torture is a notoriously messy affair. The probabilities of success are unfavorable, and if you die, all that hard work will be for naught."

Barry feels a chill work down his spine as he stares at the man casually talking about his demise. "So what's your next move?" he asks in a low voice.

DeVoe stares at him in a way that indicates he would lift an eyebrow, if the monstrosity capping his cranium permitted it. "Eager, are we? Very well." He calls out in a surprisingly soft tone, "Marlize, my darling?"

A woman in a white coat materializes. Barry tenses, instinctively prepared to fight if needed. "Entertain the idea of harming her and I will leave you as paralyzed as I am," DeVoe intones coolly. "My wife, would you mind showing him STAR Labs?"

Barry growls low in his throat. "I knew you had cameras—"

Marlize turns one of the green panels around. A screen on it makes Barry's heart pound. It's his family, in the middle of what appear to be tense negotiations. Ralph, Harry, Wally, Cisco, Joe – Iris. Please, please go home, he silently implores, but none of them abandon their post. He can tell they're consulting a screen, and his suit is conspicuously absent from its rack. Panic button works, he thinks, but it only makes him feel sick. Get out of there.

He can't even verbalize his greatest fear: if you hurt them—

"I could kill them," DeVoe muses. "There is sufficient technology in the vicinity to override and annihilate any human inhabitants in the area. There are two exceptions in the room." He glides his chair over to the screen. Barry keeps his distance from the DeVoes, scanning the back of the chair for any weaknesses. "Wallace West and Francesco Ramon. If I triggered any lethal actions, then they could evacuate the group before anything went truly awry. The maneuver would fail."

Barry thinks, We have to upgrade security. False locks, manual overrides, hard copies of everything, escape routes that aren't mapped, change it all every week.

"Mr. West is like you. Conveniently, his suit is similar to yours. There is a defibrillator in the jacket. Thermal devices throughout the extremities. Communication devices capable of emitting fantastic decibels. To name but a few lethal options. The worst part, Mr. Allen?" Barry swallows hard. He would throw up otherwise. "All of the technology is remotely accessible. Your friends saved your life when you were far away. I have that same access."

"If you hurt him—" Barry's voice rasps. "I will never stop coming after you."

"You will continue that course of action no matter what I do," DeVoe dismisses. Marlize rests a hand casually on the arm of his chair, and he places his hand over hers. "Wally's life was sufficiently threatening to motivate you once. It did not work then. You gave up your Speed, but you reclaimed it, thanks to that extraordinary connection you have with the Speed Force. No one but you could have survived that event, Mr. Allen. Absolutely no one."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Barry says flatly, daring to step towards them. If he could incapacitate Marlize – but fire erupts across his chest and he cries out, reaching to claw at the thermo-regulators branding his skin. "Enough!"

"I will decide when it is enough," DeVoe says in a voice fully an octave deeper. "You insolent little boy."

Barry tries and fails to suck in a breath, but the pain is blindingly intense. He crashes to his knees. Tearing at the suit does nothing to it. His hands fumble with the zipper, agitation making them shake harder, and he realizes that it's been fused to the jacket. With a furious groan, he gives it up, fisting his hands in his hair and shouting, "DEVOE!"

At last, the heat drains away; the electrical impulse dies. He scrabbles at the collar of the suit, struggling to draw in enough air through his panic. "I told you not to think about harming her," DeVoe says ominously. "Or did you forget what I am capable of? I can see everything, Mr. Allen."

Hunched over, Barry does not respond. Coolly, DeVoe explains, "That is what will happen to Mr. West if you take another step." When Barry doesn't stand, he goes on. "Mr. West is not my greatest concern. He is powerful, and incapacitating him will greatly reduce their ability to cope with a second wave of disasters, but it would not be enough to stop their heroic efforts." He sneers; Barry doesn't look at his face to see it. "If anything, it will energize them. I need to break them."

It makes Barry sick to think about how much he has to lose, how he cannot protect any of them. "I'll do what you want," he insists to the floor. He howls in pain when a second jolt of electricity ignites his chest, branching out to his fingertips.

"Pain is a powerful deterrent," DeVoe muses without looking at him. "It fails as a motivator because the brain is designed to suppress it. Once it has been removed, we forget what it felt like. Our contractual obligations lose all meaning without a finite understanding of what is at stake."

Cross-eyed with it, Barry presses his fists against the floor, shaking hard. "I'll – do – what – you – want," he gasps.

"Pain is a deterrent, Mr. Allen, not a motivator," DeVoe reminds, infuriatingly calm. "The second I stop, your benevolence disappears." Instructively, perhaps, the pain stops, all at once. But it lingers, like ash on Barry's tongue, an unshakable tremor in his limbs. "Repeat your previous claim."

He should, but it is like acid in his stomach; fury overrides it. "Go to hell."

DeVoe laughs. "Do you see, Marlize? His response is exactly as I predicted."

Marlize says sweetly, "That is why you are my brilliant husband."

"You will make an extraordinary lightning rod," DeVoe tells her.

Barry freezes. In a low voice, he asks, "What did you just say?"

"She will make an extraordinary lightning rod," DeVoe repeats. "After all, Iris West-Allen is yours. Congratulations on the wedding. I heard it was interrupted twice."

Barry stands on legs that do not want to support him. "You're right," he says softly, insidiously.

"I am always right, Mr. Allen."

"I won't stop," Barry persists, staggering forward. "I won't ever stop hunting you now."

"I am not finished," DeVoe says. He points to the screen. "Watch."

Barry lets his gaze slide over the screen, staggering forward. Cisco puts a hand to his head. His brow furrows. Conversation continues unabated. "Did you know he experiences migraines?" DeVoe says coolly. On screen, Cisco shakes his head, dismissing a concerned remark from Iris. Barry's heart pounds.

"DeVoe," he says softly, voice on its knees even as he steps forward. "Don't—"

"This one will not set off any alarms. At first." All at once, Cisco drops to the floor, mouth open in a yell. "Something is amiss," DeVoe narrates, simpering. "What will your friends do?"

Where's Caitlin? Barry thinks, because she would be there, diagnosing, recognizing that something was deeply wrong, but she's not in the small crowd gathered around Cisco. His mouth is still dropped open in a scream. Barry staggers on.

"Superstring theory allows the small mind to cope with the unknowable cosmos," DeVoe carries on, even as Cisco begins to thrash on the floor, hands clutching his hair. Barry's heart pounds.

"Let him go," he says, but he does not dare Flash, and his legs do not want to step any closer. Ten feet. Go.

"It is so much worse than any of you could possibly understand," DeVoe growls. "In twenty years, you will realize exactly how hopeless the endeavor is and abandon your search for a 'theory of everything.' In fifty, you will try to patch the wounds of Einsteinian and Newtonian physics, but they will both fall. All of it will fall. The cosmos is not knowable to the human mind. Try though you might, it is something you can never hope to understand."

"Let him go," Barry shouts, refusing to be deterred from the pandemonium on-screen. He staggers forward three more steps, and has to pause, feeling the force field around DeVoe's chair pushing him back.

DeVoe makes a soft, sneering sound, and Cisco goes limp on-screen. "You push my magnanimity to its limits, Mr. Allen. As I was saying, the universe is beyond your understanding. It is grander, more twisted, and more evasive than you ever dared to think of it. There are no rules. You fool yourselves every time you find them because exceptions lie everywhere." Barry cannot avert his gaze from the screen, his heart bleeding with apology: I'm sorry. I'm sorry. "Vibes, as you call them, are old rules in a lawless universe. They do not manipulate strings. They manipulate the mind."

Barry frowns and looks at DeVoe. "I don't understand," he admits hollowly, catching his team trying to revive Cisco from the corner of his eye.

DeVoe says, "You are incapable of understanding."

Lunging forward at Speed, ignoring the sharp, splintering pain that erupts from his hand on contact, he yanks hard on DeVoe's chair. Eerily, neither DeVoe startles; Marlize simply steps aside while her husband narrows his eyes, allowing the contact – at tremendous cost. Barry's arm shakes hard, pain ricocheting from bone to muscle and back again. "Try me," he snaps.

In response, the world lurches underneath him. DeVoe keeps a cold hand over his wrist, grip tightening like a python. Barry's vision blacks out, then bursts into colors, searing, overlapping, hypnotic colors. He tries to pull away but DeVoe hangs on. His smile is dark, delirious, sinister beyond imagining. "This is the first layer of infinity," he declares. "Light." The kaleidoscopic mix of red and blue and yellow is nauseating. Barry can't look away. "This is what the world really looks like."

Every word he says causes the colors around him to shiver, coalesce, transform, disappear. Idly, entranced, Barry looks down at himself and sees a burning red darkness, almost invisible. It's all-consuming, an image that draws him in, ushers him farther away from reality, and he realizes that this is the impression Speed Force makes in the world: darkness, tinted with red light, the last embers of his humanity persisting in the ether.

"Fantastic, is it not?" DeVoe says. Barry looks up at him and feels sick with the contrast, overwhelmed by the sheer sensory overload. "You are an isle of calm in a cosmos filled with noise. If I took your Speed, it would do nothing for me. But if I took your Speed Force, that very thing that makes you like this, Mr. Allen … then I would be who I am meant to be. The body would match the mind."

"You can't have it," Barry manages, and DeVoe lets him go, the world sinking back into darkness, dizzying, almost overwhelming darkness. He slumps to the floor for a moment, placing his palms on it to steady him.

"I cannot break you, or you will not comply," DeVoe humors aloud, drifting away from him. Marlize follows. "I can still inflict enough harm to accomplish my goals."

Something sharp spears the back of Barry's shoulder. He groans in pain, reaching back for it, but darkness is already closing in. "Sleep tight."

Barry is out before the first protest is out of his mouth.

. o .

"Rise and shine, Mr. Allen."

Curled up on his side, Barry groans, reaching up to rub his eyes. There's a pounding headache in his skull. Attempting to sit up ignites more pain, so he stays down. The floor is cold, hardwood. A fire crackles nearby. He rolls onto his back, staring up at a cream-colored ceiling. "Where am I?" he slurs, rubbing his eyes.

"My study," DeVoe responds nearby. Every muscle in Barry's body tenses. "You stood up to leave and passed out."

Lying flat, Barry demands sluggishly, "For how long?"

DeVoe shuffles back his sleeve, watch jingling. "Thirty minutes, give or take." Something's not right, the imprecision – it's not right. But Barry can't make the puzzle pieces connect in his brain. DeVoe nears him in his – wheelchair? Barry waits for it to hover off the ground, but that can't be right. No, it's just – a chair. And it's just DeVoe in it. He doesn't know what he expected differently, but – "Marlize, my darling? Our guest is awake."

"Oh, thank God," Marlize effuses, entering the room and crouching beside him. Barry flinches from her, but – she's in a forest green sweater and grey colored pants, harmless as harmless can appear. She says, "Let me help you." Too disoriented to argue, he lets her put an arm around his shoulders, hissing in pain as points of sharpness dig into his skin. "You fell quite hard," she says, indicating a coffee table nearby. Ah. That's the sharpness. "We were worried."

"Something's – not right," he mumbles aloud, trying and failing to pull away from her grip. God, he's weak. And tired. Where the hell did all of this exhaustion come from? I'm not eating enough, he thinks, and his stomach growls obligingly. He flushes. "I – I should, I should go—"

"We called Detective West for you," Marlize explains, arm around his waist to support him. More pressure points along his back, but – he can almost feel the coffee table dig into his back, hear the startled cries of the DeVoes. He flushes. "He should be here—"

A pounding knock on the door precedes Joe letting himself in. "Barry!" he barks, entering the study, anxiety pouring from him in waves. "What did you do?" he demands of the DeVoes.

"Easy, Joe," Barry slurs. Marlize lets him go and he struggles forward a step, stumbles forward a step, and Joe catches him. "S'okay."

With almost forceful relief, Joe drags his arm over his broader shoulders. "All right. All right, Bar." Then, with a tense sort of anxiety Barry has come to know, but can't place from what, he tells the DeVoes stiffly, "Thank you for the call."

"We sincerely hope he is all right," DeVoe says.

Barry tries to respond, to keep up a show of politeness, but he can't make his mouth form words, so he lets Joe guide him out of the house instead.

"I'm taking you to STAR," Joe tells him the second the doors are shut. Barry doesn't even remember being put into the front passenger's seat, the seatbelt digging into his chest, and… he reaches up to his chest, but there is no suit. Where's his suit? "Right now."

"Joe, I'm – fine," he tries, because he can feel the tension radiating from Joe, and Joe's been under enough stress as it is, he doesn't need more, but his eyelids are already sinking. He rests his cheek against the window. "Just … tired."

Joe puts a firm hand on his wrist and squeezes it. "No, no, focus. I'm worried you have a concussion. No sleeping."

"I don't have a concussion," Barry mumbles, exasperated and exhausted. "I'm … just … really tired." He feels a hand on his forehead and scrunches up his nose, pushing it away. "I don't have a fever."

"The hell you don't. You're burning up."

They're driving, and Joe's focus returns to the road. Barry doesn't even know exactly when he drifts out, coming to with Joe's hand shaking his shoulder. "Hey, hey. Stay with me."

"They're nice people," Barry mumbles, cheek pressing against Joe's shoulder as the latter unbuckles him, half-drags, half-picks him up out of the car. "They called Joe."

. o .

Lying flat on his back on a soft surface, Barry says again, "They called Joe."

A firm, calloused hand slips into his own and squeezes. "Stay with us, buddy."

"DeVoe…" But he loses the train of thought and slips into oblivion before he can finish it.

. o .

Consciousness fades into focus for Barry.

"…sure there isn't any evidence?"

"His blood work is clean, Joe. No barbiturates, opiates, benzos, narcotics of any kind. And his blood sugar was really low, he – might have just passed out."

"Bullshit."

"I'm with Joe, my Spidey senses are off the charts on this one."

"Look, I want to nail these guys just as badly as you do, but – what are we going to charge them with?"

Someone snaps their fingers. It's loud. "Attempted kidnapping."

A scoff. "Again: what proof? Barry was in violation of their restraining order."

"I don't care. I don't care, I just want to get these sons of bitches before they lay another hand on any of my kids."

"I know." A sigh. "We'll figure something out. Right now, the most important thing is…"

. o .

Barry blinks up at a cream-colored ceiling. "Hey." Cisco squeezes his shoulder. "Hey, buddy. You finally back with us?"

Barry's mouth tastes like cotton. "How long was I out?" he asks. His voice is so dry it hurts. Cisco hands him a Dixie cup full of water and a straw.

"Uh." Spinning his chair around, Cisco checks the clock. "Well. It's Friday?"

Barry chokes. "What?"

"Shouldn't have led with that, I understand now," Cisco says, wincing, as Barry struggles to a sitting position, coughing violently. "Hey, hey, it's okay, Wally and I have taken care of everything, and Iris is the best team leader in the whole world—"

"Iris – where is she?" Barry coughs, mouth against his sleeve. STAR Labs' sweater. It doesn't – it's not right, but his head hurts, and it's easier to attribute it to nothing than pursue the anomaly.

"Right here," Iris announces, and Barry glances over at the doorway as she steps into the room, crossing the floor and wrapping her arms around him. "Don't ever do that again. Ever," she says.

He presses his forehead against her shoulder, fisting the back of her shirt in his hand, and says nothing.

"I'll let you guys have the room," Cisco says, patting Barry's knee once. The door clicks shut behind him.

Iris knits her hand in the hair at the back of his head, holding onto him. Her heartbeat is close enough for Barry to hear it, beating fast. "I was so scared," she admits.

"Cisco okay?" Barry asks, and he can't understand why, but it's pressing at his chest, burning at his chest.

He can almost hear Iris' frown. "Why wouldn't he be?" she asks slowly. Her fingers scratch gently at his neck. It's hypnotic, lovely. "We've been worried about you. What do you remember?"

He buries his face against her collar, inhaling and exhaling slowly. There's panic still seated in his chest over the simple act, but he can't place that, either. "I – I went to talk with the DeVoes, and …" He frowns. "I don't know. I guess I passed out?"

She sighs. He feels it, tracing his hands apologetically against her back. "Okay," she says, but he can tell she's disappointed.

"I'm sorry," he tells her, and she squeezes the base of his neck gently.

"No, it's not your fault," she assures. She sits on the bed and he leans back to look at her. She's a little fuzzy around the edges and the throbbing in his head makes him grimace, close his eyes. "What'd they do to you?" she murmurs, reaching up to brush his cheek, and he's surprised to feel the rasp of stubble. "God, I wanna put them away. Dad's furious. Understandably."

"I don't …" He shakes his head a little, leaning his cheek against her palm when she cups his face in one hand. He closes his eyes. Exhales.

She cradles his head in both hands, leaning in to kiss his forehead. "Go back to sleep. We'll talk later."

He wants to tell her that he's up, he's ready for it, but consciousness is a rope slipping through his fingers, and it's gone before he realizes it's being pulled away.

. o .

"Mr. Allen. A surprise."

Still a little sleep-heavy, Barry approaches the stage slowly. "What did you do to me?" he asks quietly.

DeVoe, still in his chair, still infuriatingly human, smiles. "Accusations, this late, Mr. Allen? I had hoped your strategy might advance."

"I know you did something." Barry climbs the steps with an exhausting effort. "You can either tell me now, or I can force it out of you later." His eyes flash gold, he knows, because DeVoe's smile loses its edge. It flattens. His own expression mirrors it. "So. What's it gonna be?"

"You should reconsider your threat," DeVoe says, lifting his phone. Barry stares at the recording without blinking. "Unless you want to lose more than your job."

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Barry takes a step forward. "Try me," he bites.

DeVoe wheels forward, pausing mere feet away from him. "Are you sure it was not all in your head?" he asks, tapping his own temple with a finger demonstratively.

Barry shakes his head, trying to clear it, but there's something irresistible about the weight of DeVoe's words. "No," he says. His hands are shaking a little. There's fear rising in his gut, and he retreats a few steps. One hand creeps up to his chest, aching for the panic button under the emblem of the suit, but it isn't there, because his suit isn't there, either. "No."

"I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Allen, but I must be leaving. I have a wife to return home to." He smiles. "As do you."

Barry doesn't think, just Flashes forward, fisting DeVoe's shirt. He expects pain and finds human frailty instead underneath those cold, calculating eyes. He releases DeVoe slowly, and nothing changes. His head is spinning. He takes a step back.

He feels more dangerous than all of them.

He takes another step back. He can almost see – a world of colors, exhausting, overwhelming colors, and his own darkness, his absence of chaos. The hungriness of DeVoe's gaze is unsettling.

"I will get what I want, Mr. Allen.

"No matter how many times we must revisit this scene."

Barry jerks awake on the STAR Labs' hospital bed.

Slowly, he brings his hands up to clutch his head. Iris appears in the doorway, frowning and asking if he's okay.

He can find no response.

I think I'm losing my mind.

And he has no way of knowing when the dream begins and the reality ends.