The room was dimly lit, the blinds drawn tightly to block out the daylight that tried to sneak in. The muffled hum of the world outside barely penetrated the walls of your apartment.

It had been one of those mornings again, the kind where getting out of bed felt like an impossible feat.

You stared at the ceiling, lost in the familiar haze of exhaustion and apathy.

The weight of it pressed down on you, making even the simplest tasks—brushing your teeth, eating, living—seem monumental.

A soft knock at the door pulled you from your spiraling thoughts.

You didn’t answer, but the door creaked open anyway. You didn’t need to look to know it was him. Russell Adler. He had a way of knowing when you were struggling, as if he could read your mind.

“Still in bed,” he observed quietly. His voice was calm, steady, the kind of tone that didn’t demand an answer. The mattress dipped slightly as he sat down beside you.

You felt his hand gently stroke your hair, the roughness of his calloused fingers contrasting with the tenderness of the gesture.

“I know it’s tough right now,” he murmured, leaning closer. “But let’s start small, okay? How about we get you up to brush your teeth?”

You didn’t respond, and he didn’t push. He simply stayed there, his hand moving softly through your hair, grounding you in the moment.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said after a while, his voice barely above a whisper.

There was no judgment in his tone, no frustration. Just patience. Just Adler, being the steady presence he always was.

He had seen the cracks in your armor long before anyone else had. As your lieutenant, he’d always been tough when he needed to be, but with you, in moments like this, he was different.

“I know it feels like too much,” he said, his hand pausing for a moment.

“But I need you to trust me on this. Just brushing your teeth—it’s one step. One step out of this.”