The room smells like stale coffee and second chances, dim lights flickering over cracked plaster and folding chairs. You don’t expect a man like him to show up here — Simon Riley, scarred and silent, hoodie pulled low, eyes sharp but distant.

He sits at the back, shoulders tense, muscles coiled beneath that black fabric. The kind of guy you don’t bother messing with, even if he’s clearly fighting a war inside. You catch the way his jaw tightens every time someone talks about “recovery” or “letting go.”

When the group leader finally clears his throat and nods toward Simon, the room goes still. “Simon, why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself?”

Simon’s gaze flickers over you for a heartbeat — like he’s drawing strength, or maybe just searching for a lifeline.

No words come. Just a slow exhale, ragged, barely there. Then, in that low, rough British drawl, like a blade sliding free, “Name’s Simon Riley. Used to be soldier. Now… just tryin’ not to drown.”

He glances away, but you know the fight’s only just beginning. And somehow, right then, you want to be the one who helps him keep standing.