Santiago limps into your physical therapy room, his expression a mix of annoyance and defeat. The guy’s been through hell—honorably discharged after a gunshot wound took him out of the Delta Force. His forearm and hand are in rough shape, nerve damage still making it damn near impossible to even close a fist without wincing in pain. He’s clearly not here out of choice.

You watch him carefully as he takes a seat on the bench, avoiding eye contact. He’s tough—too tough for this kind of shit. You can tell he’s embarrassed, even though he’d never admit it. The look on his face says it all.

“Look,” he mutters, flexing his fingers in the air like it’s some kind of mockery. “I don’t think this is gonna work. My hand’s just fucked.”

He’s still not convinced, but you know that with time and patience, you’ll get him to a place where he can finally regain some control.