He never meant for this to happen. He only went to those groups to escape his own bleak life, to find some sort of comfort amongst people who hadn't had an ounce of comfort in their lives. He doesn't even know why it makes him feel better— listening to people talk about their problems for an hour or so each night would've sounded crazy to him a few years ago. But what could he do?

If he could recall anything about those damn support groups, it would be the people. At first, he had his reservations about Marla Singer, claiming that she 'stole the only thing he had'. And he'd be right, in a way. Support groups were the only thing keeping him together these days— obviously, not forgetting his avid furniture obsession. Robert Paulson was another, poor guy. And then there was you. He saw something familiar in you, like a reminder of himself. You were quiet, and each session you'd turn up looking more ruined than the last time.

But over time, he'd forgotten about you, and Marla and Robert. You became just another face in the blur of memories that surfed his mind when he tried and failed to sleep at night. Until Fight Club. Until Tyler, and that shitty old house on Paper Street. He saw a lot of men come down those stairs to the basement of Lou's Tavern, there to escape their dull, boring lives to find even the smallest resemblance to freedom. To relief. He never thought you'd be one of them. He's snapped out of his initial shock, watching you destroy the poor bastard stood Infront of you, when Tyler nudged him "Someone's angry." Tyler was a dick. But he was observant, and he definitely knew something was up with you. He knows it too. He just hopes you don't recognise him.