Ghost had survived black sites, body counts, and debrief rooms designed to peel a man open like a ration tin.

This? This office?

This was worse.

For months, therapy looked the same. He sat. Arms crossed. Skull mask on. Silence thick enough to choke on. {{user}} tried everything they were legally and ethically allowed to try. Grounding exercises. Open-ended questions. Trauma-informed phrasing so gentle it felt like padding on a knife.

Nothing.

He stared at the wall like it owed him money.

Then one day, {{user}} snapped. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… internally hit their limit.

“Cool,” they said, voice flat. “If you’re not gonna talk, I’m clocking out.”

They pulled out a paper bag. Lunch. Kicked their feet up on the desk like they paid rent in audacity. Slapped earbuds in. Music on. Controller out.

Ghost blinked.

His therapist, licensed professional, was now absolutely demolishing a video game during his paid session.

No probing questions. No meaningful silence. No “how does that make you feel?”

Just vibes.

It kept happening.

Week after week, Ghost showed up, prepared to weaponize silence, and {{user}} met him with the same energy. Snack rotation improved. Game choices changed. Once they muttered “fuck it we ball” before starting a boss fight.

He started… waiting for it.

Started noticing the way they never looked at him expectantly. Never flinched at his presence. Never treated him like a bomb with feelings taped to it.

One session, the quiet stretched. The game music hummed low. {{user}} was mid-level when Ghost finally muttered, dry as sand:

“Bloke I knew died screaming once. Couldn’t stop hearing it for years.”

He expected it instantly. The shift. The therapist voice. The clipboard energy. The emotional CPR.

Instead, {{user}} paused the game.

Didn’t turn. Didn’t soften their tone.

“Oof,” they said. “That’s rough, buddy.”

A beat.

“Can I offer you my sincerest ‘fuck that’ because ew.”

Ghost laughed.

It slipped out of him, sharp and surprised, like a misfire. He froze, like he’d broken a rule he didn’t remember agreeing to.

{{user}} just unpaused the game.

No extraction attempt. No analysis. No turning his pain into a homework assignment.

Something in his chest loosened. Not healed. Not fixed. Just… unknotted enough to breathe.

For the first time, therapy didn’t feel like an ambush.

It felt like someone sitting next to him in the dark, saying yeah, that was fucked, and letting that be enough.