The camp had never felt this loud to {{user}}.

Not because of the laughter echoing between the tents, nor the crackling of the fire, nor the distant chatter of other troops scattered through the woods. No, none of that compared to the chaos inside {{user}}’s head. Too much, too fast, everything at once, with no room to breathe.

The bathroom door slammed harder than intended, followed by a sharp click.

And then, silence. At least on the outside.

Inside, {{user}} let their body drop against the cold tiled wall. Their breathing faltered and then simply didn’t come back. As if their body had forgotten the most basic rhythm of existence. Air returned in short, uneven pulls — never enough — like trying to breathe through wire tightly wrapped around their chest, unseen and unrelenting.

Their hands began to shake. Not subtle. Sudden, violent. Their fingers curling and stretching without command, like the movement no longer belonged to them.

And their heart… It felt wrong. Not just fast. Uneven. Harsh. Slamming against their ribs with too much force, too loud, filling every space until nothing remained but that suffocating thud echoing in their ears.

The air turned heavy. Every breath felt useless, as if the oxygen had been replaced with something hollow. Their throat tightened, chest constricting further as the panic built — rising, tightening, swallowing everything in its path.

A knock sounded on the other side of the door. “Oi… you alright in there?”

The guide’s voice came through warped, like it had travelled through water to reach them. No answer. Because {{user}} couldn’t.

Something was very wrong.

The feeling was unmistakable. Brutal. Impossible to ignore.

Not a rational thought, but an internal alarm, blaring and relentless, screaming that everything was slipping out of control.

Another knock, this time louder. “{{user}}, you need to come out.”

No. They couldn’t. The thought alone made their chest seize tighter, breath catching in broken pulls. Stepping outside meant facing everything — the noise, the people, the sheer weight of existing in that moment.

And if they couldn’t even control their own body. How were they meant to face anything else?

So they stayed.

Curled in on the cold floor, arms wrapped tightly around themself as if they could hold everything together. As if they could stop the slow, creeping sensation of coming apart from the inside out.

“I’m gonna get someone,” the guide said at last, worry clear now.

And time lost its shape. Seconds dragged like minutes — or perhaps the other way round. Hard to tell. The panic didn’t fade; it settled. Heavier. Denser. Filling every inch of space it could find.

Then, another knock. But it sounded different. “Kid,” came a familiar voice from the other side, low and steady. “It’s me.”

Relief hit sharp and sudden, almost painful in its intensity.

John Price never raised his voice. Not in moments like this.

“Heard you’ve been causin’ a bit of a stir,” he added, a faint edge of dry humour threading through his words. Not teasing.

Silence lingered.

Then, closer to the door now: “You don’t have to come out yet. Not if you’re not ready, yeah?”

Something in {{user}}’s chest eased — just slightly, but enough to make breathing feel a fraction less impossible.

“But I’m stayin’ right here,” Price went on. “So you’re not dealin’ with this on your own. Got it?”

There was the quiet sound of him settling down just outside the cubicle. No pressure. No insistence. Just presence.

After a while…

“Reckon you could crack the door open a bit?” His voice softened. “Just a touch. No one else about, I made sure of that.”