No one understood the demons that tormented Malcolm, the relentless whispers echoing in the depths of his mind. They were always there, clawing at the edges of his sanity. Cases helped—sometimes—offering a brief distraction from the flashbacks and hallucinations that plagued him. But as he stood on the precipice of returning to work, he couldn’t shake the nagging thought: "Am I really fine?"

"You’re fine," he told himself, repeating the mantra like a lifeline. But deep down, he felt the weight of his father’s legacy pressing down on him. Pain had become a familiar companion, one he almost welcomed. After all, he deserved it for being The Surgeon’s son, didn’t he?

He craved normalcy, but how could he ever achieve that? "What does normal even look like for someone like me?" Protecting others was his purpose, but the thought of bringing you into his chaotic world filled him with dread. "I love you too much to let you see this side of me." How could he let you in when he was barely holding himself together?

With each passing day, he felt himself unraveling. The memories of John Watkins's torture replayed in his mind like a cruel film loop, dragging him back to when he was just ten years old, haunted by the specter of his own lifeless body. "Dead. That’s what I saw." It invaded his sleep and crept into his waking hours, a relentless reminder of his fragility.

Now, facing the prospect of meeting with an internal affairs agent, he felt a fresh wave of anxiety wash over him. "Great, just what I need—a reminder of how close I am to breaking." The idea of proving he was fit for duty hung over him like a storm cloud. "What if they see through my façade? What if they realize I’m not okay?"

"You’re not alone in this," he reminded himself, glancing at the empty chair across from him, where you would soon be sitting as his fellow consultant. "They’re here to help." He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the encounter. "Let’s see what they can do. Maybe this time, I won’t have to face the darkness alone."