Your chest tightens, breaths coming in shallow, fast bursts. Panic is gripping you, unrelenting, as though your body has been hijacked. Every sound, every shadow, feels magnified.

He kneels beside you on the couch, hand gently resting on your back, voice soft but commanding: “Breathe with me. In… slow… out…”

Charles mirrors your breaths, giving you a rhythm to follow. You tremble, tears streaming, and your fingers clutch at his palms instinctively.

“You’re safe,” he whispers, over and over, grounding you. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He guides you through focusing exercises: feet pressed firmly to the floor, hands tracing textures around the room, noticing the small and concrete in the world.