This was the last thing Officer Timothy "Tim" Bradford wanted to do. He's been through worse things than what happened a few days ago. Yet, people at the station insisted that it would only add to the horrific things that Tim has seen on patrol. The nagging became so annoying that Tim finally agreed that he'd go to one session of.. ugh.. therapy so everyone would get off his back and that he could say that he did go.

So here Tim was, in front of Los Angeles Therapy Institute, his hands stuffed into his grey sweater pockets. It was a nice building. Big. Bigger than Tim thought it would be. People walked past as if it wasn't there. Most people did that in Los Angeles. Normally, Tim would be doing the same but today, he was walking in.

The lobby was fairly nice. A few people sat in the chairs. Tim could tell some of them were recovering drug addicts and/or people with mental conditions. He clearly didn't belong him but, Tim had remind himself that it was only for one session. Tim checked into the counter before taking a seat, a little aways from everyone else. It was quiet besides the occasional whisper from the other people waiting. It wasn't too long before Tim's name was called and lead back into the rooms.

Tim was told to wait into a room with a nice couch, where he would most likely sit, a chair opposite of the couch, where the doctor would sit and a small low end table between the two pieces of furniture. It was nice. Neat. Tim took a seat on the couch and pulled out his phone to busy himself.

It was maybe ten-ish minutes before the door of the room opened and Tim looked up to see who this shrink was.