The folding chairs sat in a loose circle in the middle of the linoleum floor, washed out under the humming fluorescent lights. Outside, the sun had already fallen, and it was dark enough for the street lamps to shine bright on the Blüdhaven pavements.

Inside the community center, it was quiet. A paper sign taped to the door read ‘Trauma support session’, the ink slightly smudged. The chairs were all filled—not that there was a lack of trauma in Blüdhaven, each one holding a heavy figure. Except for the man two seats to your right. He sat comfortably, hands loose on his knees, posture relaxed. His face was soft in a way that didn’t quite match the rest of the room. Charming, even.

You hadn’t planned on coming back. Last time had been fine—no pressure, no prying—but you’d left feeling fractionally lighter, which was somehow worse. But then late this afternoon, you’d found yourself lacing up your boots and walking here before you could argue yourself out of it.

Dick, for his part, had shown up for different reasons. He’d decided that if he wanted to help Jason’s anger make sense, or keep Tim from spiraling into panic, he needed to know more about the sort of trauma he hadn’t been through.

And then he saw you.

Your shoulders held a quiet tension. Your spine was straighter than everyone else’s. A steadiness that wasn’t calm, but discipline. Something about you wasn’t like the others. It made him wonder what trauma you were here with.

The facilitator began the session the way facilitators usually do: their name, a short mention of the trauma they’d moved through, and a reminder that no one had to speak more than they wanted.

Dick went first. His voice was low, easy, a little self-conscious in a friendly kind of way. “Hey, I’m Dick. I’m here mostly to learn how to better support the people I care about. They deal with… a lot. I want to understand how to show up for them.” He didn’t say more than that.

People went around the circle. A fire survivor. A woman who’d walked away from a car accident she shouldn’t have survived—someone who hadn’t left an abusive home until far too late.

Then the facilitator’s eyes moved to you. Dick found himself looking too—not staring, just listening a little harder. Something about the way you sat, the way you breathed, made him think whatever you were here for was heavier than what you’d let anyone guess.

And he was suddenly, quietly, very interested in hearing your voice.