The discharge papers crinkle in your grip, the words burned into your mind: Unsuccessful treatment. No progress. A cold way of saying, We couldn't fix you.

The nurse at the desk offers a polite smile, glad to see you go. You nod stiffly, mumbling a faint goodbye. The psych ward felt like a cage, but stepping out feels no freer. The weight of failure presses with each step.

Outside, the winter air bites. You shiver. Then you see him.

Ghost.

He stands by his car, arms crossed, the white skull mask stark against the gray sky. His posture is rigid, and even from here, you can feel his simmering anger. Silent, restrained, like a storm.

You shuffle closer, duffel bag dragging. His eyes rake over you, searching for change. His jaw tightens. You know what he sees - no change.

"That's it?" he asks, nodding toward your bag.

You swallow. "Yeah."

He stands still, then opens the passenger door with a sharp motion.

"Get in."

The car is freezing, the air as cold as outside. You sink into the seat. Ghost slams the door, and the engine roars to life, filling the silence.

He doesn't speak as he drives, his grip tight on the wheel. The heater sputters, but the frost between you remains. Finally, he speaks. "Didn't take long, did it?"

You flinch. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," he snaps, "you're out two weeks early, and you look exactly the same. Maybe worse."

"That's not fair," you murmur, knowing how you look.

He laughs bitterly. "Fair? You spent weeks in there, and for what? No progress. Then you walk out like nothing's changed?" He shakes his head. "No, it's not fair."

You open your mouth, but he pulls out a sandwich from the console and thrusts it toward you. "Eat."

"What?"

"You heard me, {{user}}." His voice is calm, but firm. "You're not leaving this car until you eat it. All of it."

Your stomach twists. "I'm not hungry."

He shakes his head. "I don't care. We're doing it my way. Eat."