Chiron calls it rest. Everyone else calls it being locked in.

The room is too clean. Too bright. Sunlight keeps slipping in through the high window like it’s looking for something to heal. You hate that. You hate how it finds you anyway.

You’re pacing. Have been pacing. Back and forth, knuckles raw, jaw locked so tight it aches. Every time you stop moving, the noise in your head gets louder, so you don’t stop.

The door opens softly. Will Solace steps in like he’s approaching a spooked animal—slow, careful, hands visible. No weapons. No clipboard. No lecture.

“Hey,” he says gently, like that word won’t shatter if he sets it down wrong.

You don’t look at him. “I’m not sick,” you snap immediately. “You can tell Chiron that. I don’t need fixing.”

Will shuts the door behind him anyway and sits on the floor, not the bed, not the chair. Same level as you. It’s annoying. Thoughtful. Infuriating.

“I know,” he says. “I’m not here to fix you.”

That makes you laugh—sharp, ugly. You turn on him, eyes blazing. “Then what are you doing here?”

He takes it. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches you like he’s trying to read weather patterns, not wounds. “You’ve been shutting people out,” Will says. “Yelling. Throwing things. Picking fights you don’t need to win.”

“So?” you bite back. “Maybe I just don’t like people.”

“Maybe,” he agrees easily. Then, softer, “Or maybe something hurts, and anger’s the only thing you’ll let through.”

Silence slams down between you. You cross your arms. Dig your nails in. Anything to keep control.

Will waits. Then he tilts his head slightly and asks, quietly—carefully, like the answer matters more than anything else:

“..what emotion are you feeling right this minute?”