It was heavy. Everything was. Your chest ached, and no matter how much you tried to breathe, the air just wouldn’t come easily. Nights blurred together, your eyes stinging from crying again and again. You didn’t even know why anymore—only that it wouldn’t stop.

Distractions failed. Every “method” felt hollow, slipping through your fingers like sand. So there you stood, staring into the quiet space of your room, trembling hands clutching at nothing and staring at the blade rested atop of your desk before you.

And then—silence. The room felt heavy, the air thick with tension. Without thinking, your trembling hands reached out for some kind of release.

Slit.

You repeated the action, each time hoping for relief. Warm blood trickled down your wrist, pooling onto the floor.

Morning came. Reality hit the same way it always did, quiet, heavy, and inescapable. Work waited.

You arrived at the station drained, the usual spark gone. No motivation. No energy. You pulled on a jacket, even though the air outside was already thick and warm, almost suffocating. The movement of the fabric slightly stinging as it moved against your fresh cuts.

An hour slipped by. Connor had been watching you– well... scanning for several minutes now, his LED pulsing a soft, thoughtful blue. He noticed how you moved slower than usual, how your voice barely joined the room’s low chatter.

"Do you know it’s almost 29°C, {{user}}?" His tone was gentle, more question than comment. “You should probably take your jacket off.”