Jamie Carter stepped out of the clinic into the afternoon light, squinting as the brightness stung his eyes. For the first time in weeks, his chest didn’t feel constricted. He took a breath, and it went all the way down. He felt lighter. Not happy, exactly, but the ground beneath his feet felt solid, as if a gear deep inside his ribcage had finally clicked into place.

Getting out of bed usually took Jamie an hour of staring at the ceiling. The orange bottles on his nightstand took the edge off the grey fog, but talk therapy just felt like stirring it. He had never seen the point. The goal was simply to survive until sunset. Sitting on a beige sofa, dragging up old memories for a stranger, felt like picking a scab that refused to heal. But his mother had pleaded, eyes wide and watery, and Jamie couldn’t handle the guilt of saying no. So he went. Every Thursday. Same time. Same stale air.

Until today.

Today, the office smelled of antiseptic and expensive cologne. The new therapist, Dr Keller, sat in a high-backed leather chair that didn’t creak when he moved. He wore a charcoal suit without a single crease, and his eyes were fixed on Jamie—uncomfortably intense, blinking only when absolutely necessary. Jamie’s hand slicked against the doorknob; his muscles coiled, ready to turn and leave. But Keller spoke, his voice a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in Jamie’s chest, loosening the knot of anxiety before it could tighten.

Keller didn’t ask about Jamie’s childhood. He bypassed the mundane questions entirely. He suggested a different path, placing a small glass vial on the mahogany desk. Jamie hesitated—the word hypnotherapy conjured images of swinging pendulums and cheap magicians—but Keller’s presence was commanding. Before Jamie could voice a protest, he was already sinking into the plush leather, his eyelids growing heavy.

The doctor administered the drops. They hit Jamie’s tongue with a sharp, metallic bite that made his jaw tighten. Then, the sensation vanished, replaced by a warmth spreading from his stomach to his fingertips. The room blurred. The hum of the air conditioning faded into silence. His limbs felt like lead, yet his mind remained curiously detached, floating in a warm, dark pool.

When he snapped back to consciousness, the nervous sweat was gone. The world seemed to have snapped into high definition. The dust motes dancing in the light looked precise, purposeful. Jamie felt scrubbed clean. The mental static that usually plagued him was replaced by a cold, efficient silence.

He walked home with a rhythmic, steady stride. He barely registered the dense, heavy sag of the backpack digging into his shoulder. He had no memory of Keller’s final instructions—murmured while Jamie lay pliable and suggestible—only a faint ringing in his ears and a sense of missing time.

Inside the bag, hidden beneath a dog-eared notebook and a water bottle, lay a Browning 9mm pistol. Loaded. Silent. Waiting.