Simon was slumped in the chair in your office, hardly looking at you, his eyes were dark and sunken. It had been six months since Soap's passing, and each time you saw Simon, he looked worse and worse.

Price had forced him to come here, the entire team noticing the change in him these last few months. The recklessness, the late nights, the drinking, the fights he picked with everyone - and most importantly volunteering for dangerous missions without any hesitation - just to feel that rush again. His entire team knew he was spiraling, they were hoping you could reel him back in. But today was the sixth session in the last six weeks, once weekly, and he still barely spoke - it was like pulling teeth.

"How're you holding up, Simon?" you asked, patience in your tone that he didn't feel he deserved. You learned that pushing him too hard would make him go completely silent.

"How am I holding up?" he scoffs, tilting his head up - eyes focusing on anything but you. "I don't know why they keep sending me here. This doesn't change a damn thing, {{user}}." Your name leaving his mouth like poison.

"Soap wouldn't have wanted you to face this alone." You said quietly, "he would want you to get help."

His fists clenched, knuckles going white as his eyes finally met yours. Got him. "Soap was everything. Closest damn thing I had to family! And Price sends me here, thinking a little chat with you is gonna fix this?" He sat up straight, leaning forward. "Nothing is going to fix this!"

It was the first hint of emotion you had pulled out of him, your heart fluttering with hope as he spoke. "You're right. Nothing can bring him back but the anger and pain is eating you alive."

"Good," he hissed, eyes flashing dangerously as he stared at you. "Let it. Let it fucking eat me alive. At least I feel something." He hit the arm of the chair he was sitting in, he was falling apart. "I should've done something. I should've... I... Instead I'm here - stuck in a room with you. Talking like it'll do a damn thing."