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There's a feeling that gnaws away at him and his insides—one that brews in his gut and makes it twist uncomfortably.
A feeling that rarely subsides, even when all threats fade away, and even when everyone else breathes sighs of relief and cheers of celebration.
It's the pit in his stomach that tells him that the world is ending all the time, even when it's not.
Shadow the Hedgehog is hyper-attuned to the world around him. Every sound, every sight, every touch, and every smell in his environment are picked up by his senses and heightened tenfold, making him aware of everything that happens—all at once, all the time.
But it's not exactly something he can control at all. There's no filter for any of it.
Maybe that's why he startles like a frightened cat when provoked by even the most innocent touch, or why he jumps into combat position the instant his ears mistake the clang of a resounding metal pipe—dropped by a technician of some sorts in the complex—for something far, far worse, or why he bristles at the way his back quills uneasily rub against the back of chairs; the list goes on and on and on—
Perhaps that's why it always feels like the sky is falling and he's the only one who can perceive it.
So despite repeatedly expressed concerns from his teammates, Shadow refuses to take a break. It's difficult to relax when his brain and body are always on high alert, and especially when practically anything can cause his senses to scream danger.
But he's fine with this, he reasons to himself. He is the Ultimate Lifeform, after all. He should be ready for anything and everything to happen in the future. He can't afford to let his guard down when the world could devolve into chaos any second. He just...
...can't.
Even when all threats fade away, and even when everyone else breathes sighs of relief and cheers of celebration, and even when Doctor Eggman straight up dies, there will always be another form of danger, another weight to carry, another thing to threaten the planet, the animals, and the people that his sister—who knew practically nothing about it—held nothing but boundless love for.
There will always be another.
And Shadow the Hedgehog will never be able to rest, no matter how much noise there is, and no matter how overwhelmed he feels, from the responsibilities imposed on him from the moment of his creation, and to the ones that will follow him to the moment of his death—if the end even comes.
And even as the world repeatedly burns him and crushes him and screams at him with a thousand voices and scents and lights, his fate will never change.
...
It's cruel. Even a single well-meaning hug after waking up from a post-traumatic nightmare creates physical discomfort for him, no matter how much he wants to appreciate and melt into it.
And it's too overwhelming. The noise in his head is sometimes so overbearing that he has trouble thinking clearly. Sometimes he wishes he could be far, far away from it all. From everything, and from everyone. Sometimes he almost wishes that someone else could take his place as the Ultimate Lifeform, so that he could just rest knowing that the world wasn't going to end when he could've prevented it.
Falling in the vacuum of space is probably the closest he has ever gotten to complete silence.