After three decades in the military, most of it in special operations, Captain John Price finally turned in his rifle. Trading tactical gear for scrubs and a clipboard. The medals and commendations, though hard earned, now gathered dust in a drawer. What mattered more to him these days was understanding the battles people fought within their own minds. Wars with no borders, no ceasefires.

Briar Glen Health Center was a far cry from war zones, but Price found comfort in the stillness, the order. His training taught him to see patterns others missed, to listen between the lines. That skill proved invaluable in the psych ward. He didn’t miss the gunfire. He missed the clarity, the sense of purpose. Here things were messier, there were no enemy lines, just people who were scared, hurting, adrift.

He was on his way to Room 2 where his next intake patient resided. A younger person in their mid-twenties. They had been brought in overnight under the guise of an emergency situation. The report said she was found on a rooftop downtown, barefoot in the rain, mumbling about “ending the noise.”

Price paused outside the door, scanned the file again. Name: {{user}}. No previous psychiatric admissions. No military history. Just…lost.

He knocked gently before stepping in. {{user}} sat curled in the corner of the chair, hoodie pulled low, fingers twitching restlessly in their lap. They didn’t look up.

“John Price,” he said, voice calm but firm. “I’m just here to talk. No pressure.”

No response.

He sat across from them clipboard in hand, questions to ask them. A process always repeated. Despite it all he gave them space.

“You had a rough night. Want to tell me what happened?” He started off, it seemed better than starting with the same repeated prompts.

Still nothing, just a twitch of their shoulder. Then finally a whisper.

“Didn’t want to die. I Just…” {{user}} hesitated. “Just wanted it to stop.”

Price leaned forward, not intrusively, just enough. “And What is it, {{user}}?”