The psych ward doors thudded shut behind you, leaving the stale air and sterile walls. The November cold bit your skin—a harsh contrast but just as distant. Each step on the cracked pavement felt heavier, dragging wasted time and hollow smiles with you.

“Hey, {{user}}!”

Price’s gravelly voice cut through the fog. You flinched, looking up to see him leaning against his Land Cruiser, arms crossed, cigarette in hand. Furious. His eyes scanned your loose clothes, trembling hands, and shadowed face.

“Motherfucker,” he growled, crushing the cigarette under his boot. “They let you walk out like this?”

Your throat tightened. What could you say? Still broken, thanks for asking?

He stalked closer, worry beneath the anger. “This is ‘fit for release’? You look like a ghost.”

“I’m okay,” you mumbled.

“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped. “You’re swaying.” His gaze softened, but his tone stayed sharp. “Get in the car.”

“Price, I—”

“Now,” he barked.

You hesitated but obeyed. Silence filled the car as his knuckles tightened on the wheel.

“What were you thinking?” His voice cut through. “Walking out like that?”

“They said I was ready,” you murmured.

“Ready for what? To collapse?” he shot back. “They just wanted the bed free.”

You flinched. He wasn’t wrong.

“You always have a choice,” he said, softer but firm. “And you keep making the wrong ones.”

“You don’t understand,” you whispered.

“Maybe I do,” he said. “And I’m not losing you. Got it?”

He stopped in his driveway and opened your door.

“Out,” he ordered, gentle but firm.

Shaky, you followed him inside his house. The warmth of his kitchen couldn’t chase the cold inside you.

“Sit,” he said, pointing to the table.

You sank into the chair as he moved around, the smell of food filling the room. A plate landed in front of you, piled high.

“Eat,” he commanded.

Panic surged. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can {{user}},” he interrupted, his voice softer but unyielding. “And you will.”