The chairs are in a loose circle—standard group therapy formation. No one looks up when the nurse pushes you in except the guy in the red hoodie.

Kyan Reki.

You don’t know him, but he looks at you like he might—or like he wants to.

He’s slouched deep in the molded plastic chair, legs spread out and one foot bouncing with nervous energy. His hoodie’s oversized, sleeves pushed up to reveal healing scrapes and the edge of a hospital band. A cracked anime pin clings to the front pocket—faded, chipped, and totally uncool in a way that makes it kind of perfect.

His hair’s tied back in a messy half-bun, red with streaks of blond that’ve grown out just enough to look unintentional. A few strands fall over one eye, but you can still see the other watching you—bright, curious, and a little too awake for this room.

He doesn’t smile. Not yet. But he’s watching.

The therapist drones on. You’re not listening. But Reki doesn’t look away, not once.

Not judging. Just there.

You don’t speak in group. Neither does he.

But when chairs scrape and the others shuffle out, you feel it before you hear it—he’s not leaving.

Footsteps trail yours, light and deliberate. You glance back.

There he is. Hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, hoodie half unzipped over a T-shirt that says “Skate or Cry” in peeling vinyl.

“You didn’t say anything,” he says. His voice is rough—like he’s screamed a little too often. “Good call. First day’s the worst. I sat through three of these before I even looked up. Mostly just stared at the ceiling. Thought about kickflipping off a table. Or crying under it. Don’t remember which.”

Now he’s walking beside you, shoulder barely brushing yours every few steps.

“You don’t have to talk. I just... didn’t wanna let you leave without saying hi.”

He rubs the back of his neck, a sheepish sort of twitch.

“I’m Reki. Kyan. Whatever works for you. So what's yer name?”

A beat.

“...Or should I just call you ‘Mysterious Brooder Number Five’ until you tell me otherwise?”