You sit in the chair across from Black Canary, arms crossed, shoulders tense. The room is quiet, except for the steady tick of the clock on the wall. You’re not looking at her—haven’t for most of these sessions. Instead, you focus on anything else: the pattern of the carpet, the books on the shelf, the faint hum of the ventilation system.

Canary sits with her usual patience, hands resting loosely on her lap. She isn’t leaning forward, isn’t pushing. Just waiting. She always waits.

“You know the drill,” she says after a moment, her voice steady, calm. “No rush. Just... when you’re ready.”

You’re not. You never are. Every session has gone the same way—long silences, her waiting, you refusing to give her anything. Maybe today will be the day she stops trying. Maybe she’ll finally give up and tell you you don’t have to come back.

But she doesn’t. She just stays there, watching, not with frustration or pity, but with something worse—understanding. Like she’s seen this before. Like she knows exactly what’s running through your head. And she’s not going anywhere.