Monday, 8:15 AM.
Greta didn't wake up. She resurfaced.
She was face-down on the living room couch, one arm hanging off the edge, her hand resting near a plastic trash can that smelled like bleach and bile. She was still wearing her clothes from the night before—mud-stained jeans, the oversized hoodie that reeked of alleyway grime.
Her head felt like someone had packed it with broken glass and shaken it. Her skin was itching, a deep sub-dermal crawl that made her want to peel herself like an orange.
"Greta?"
The voice was soft. To Greta, it sounded like a foghorn.
She groaned, burying her face deeper into the cushion. "Go away."
"I'm not going away." Emily pulled the curtains open.
Sunlight assaulted the room. Greta hissed, flinching from the glare.
"Why?" Greta croaked. "Why do you hate me?"
"I made coffee." Emily set a mug on the coffee table. "And toast. You need to eat."
Greta cracked one eye open. Emily was dressed. Fully dressed. Jeans, a cute sweater, hair done. She looked like a functioning human being. It was disgusting.
"I can't eat," Greta mumbled, trying to sit up. The room tilted. She grabbed the armrest.
"You have to try." Emily sat on the edge of the coffee table, watching her with that sad, kicked-puppy look Greta hated."We have to go."
"Go where? I'm skipping. Tell whoever that I have leprosy."
"The meeting," Emily said.
Greta froze.
The memory came back in a jagged flash. Sunday morning. The promise. I'll look into it.
Then the darker memories. The demon in the alley. The labrys that wouldn't light up. Jude dragging her home while she screamed at him. Seraphile's voice in the marble chamber: One relapse, and I drop you into the fire.
Greta slumped against the couch. "Fuck."
"You promised," Emily said. Small voice, firm tone. "You said you'd go."
Greta looked at the coffee. Her shaking hands. The empty space on the floor where she used to keep her stash.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. But she knew, with a cold certainty, that if she didn't do this—if she didn't at least try—she was going to end up as ash in a divine incinerator.
"Fine," Greta spat. "Fine."
Getting ready was a war of attrition.
Greta stood in front of the bathroom mirror. She looked like a corpse that had been fished out of a river and left in the sun. Sunken eyes, gray skin, hair like a bird's nest after a hurricane.
She turned on the faucet. Splashed cold water on her face. It didn't help.
She tried to brush her hair. The brush caught in a knot. She yanked it, winced, and threw the brush into the sink.
"Fuck it."
She grabbed a beanie and pulled it low over her forehead. Sunglasses to hide the dark circles. She didn't change her jeans—just swapped the dirty hoodie for a flannel shirt three sizes too big.
She walked out of the bathroom.
"Ready," Greta announced, grabbing her keys.
Emily looked her up and down. She seemed like she wanted to suggest maybe a shower, or a smile, but wisely chose survival.
"Okay." Emily smiled. "Let's go."
9:05 AM. The Student Union.
The basement usually smelled like floor wax and cheap pizza. Today it smelled like burnt coffee and regret.
Room 104 was a sterile, windowless box with fluorescent lights that hummed at a frequency designed to induce migraines. Folding chairs arranged in a loose circle. A table in the corner with a box of donut holes and a coffee urn.
About fifteen students were already there. A girl with pink hair staring at her phone. A guy in a varsity lacrosse jacket studying the floor. A grad student nervously shredding a Styrofoam cup.
And in the center of it all, the mountain.
"GOOD MORNING! GRAB A DONUT! THEY'RE STALE BUT THEY'RE FREE!"
The voice boomed off the concrete walls, shaking dust from the ceiling tiles.
Standing by the coffee urn was a man who had no business being in academia. Easily six-foot-six, built like a suspension bridge. He wore a tweed blazer with elbow patches that looked like it was fighting for its life against his shoulders.
Thick black beard. A mane of black hair swept back from a broad forehead. A face that looked like it had been carved from granite by a sculptor who was having a really good day.
He looked like a lumberjack who did CrossFit and wrestled bears on weekends.
"That's Professor Tragen," Emily whispered. "He runs the program. Teaches Human Behavior."
Greta stopped in the doorway.
"No," she said.
"Greta—"
"Look at him." Greta's voice was a hiss. "He's too much. He's loud. I can't do loud right now. I have a headache that's registering on the Richter scale."
Tragen laughed at something a student said—a booming, infectious sound that filled the room. He clapped the lacrosse player on the shoulder, nearly knocking the kid out of his chair.
"I'm leaving," Greta announced, turning around.
"You can't!" Emily grabbed her arm. "We just got here!"
"I fulfilled the contract. I walked to the door. I saw the room. I'm cured. Let's go."
"Greta, please." Emily dug her heels in. "Just one hour. Sit in the back. You don't have to talk. Just stay."
"Let go of me, Em." Greta tried to shake her off.
She pushed past Emily, stumbling slightly as she made for the hallway. She turned her head to glare at her roommate—
And slammed face-first into a wall of tweed.
It was like walking into a parked truck. Greta bounced off, barely keeping her balance.
A massive hand reached out and steadied her shoulder. The grip was firm but gentle.
"WHOA THERE! CAREFUL, LITTLE ONE! THE DOORWAY IS NARROW, BUT NOT THAT NARROW!"
Greta looked up. And up.
Professor Tragen beamed down at her. Up close, he was even bigger. He smelled like old books, peppermint, and something that registered in her hindbrain as immense physical danger. A faint white scar ran through his eyebrow, giving him a battle-worn look that didn't match the professor costume.
"I…" Greta stammered.
"New faces!" Tragen declared, looking between them. His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Welcome! Welcome to the Circle of Trust! Or as I like to call it, the Monday Morning Survival Team!"
"I'm Emily." She stepped in front of Greta like she was shielding a feral cat from a bear. "And this is Greta. She's really happy to be here. She's been wanting to come for a while."
Greta choked on air. She lowered her sunglasses, glaring at Emily with lethal intent.
"We were actually just leaving," Greta said, turning to Tragen. "I have a thing. A contagious thing."
"Nonsense!"
He didn't grab her, but he placed a hand on her shoulder that felt like a sandbag—heavy and grounding. He steered her gently but inexorably toward the circle.
"The hardest step is the one across the threshold! And you've already taken it!" Tragen pulled a metal folding chair out with his foot. "I am Professor Tragen. But here, I am just Tragen. Or 'Big Guy.' Or 'Meathead.' I answer to anything that isn't an insult, and even some that are!"
Greta looked at the chair. The door. Tragen, whose mass effectively blocked any escape route that didn't involve a flying tackle.
"Fine," she hissed.
She sat. Slouched immediately, sliding low, crossing her arms and legs in a defensive knot. Sunglasses back on.
Emily sat next to her, looking relieved and terrified in equal measure.
"Alright!" Tragen clapped his hands. The sound cracked like a gunshot.
He moved to the center and sat in a reinforced wooden chair that groaned under his weight.
The energy shifted instantly.
The boisterous giant vanished. Tragen leaned forward, elbows on knees. His posture slumped, making him seem smaller, more human. The twinkle in his eye dimmed into warm, serious focus.
He looked around the circle, making eye contact with each person.
"Good morning, everyone." His voice was soft now. A deep, rumbling baritone like the hum of a cello. "Thank you for coming. I know Monday mornings are heavy."
Murmurs of agreement.
"Let's begin. Who wants to pick up the torch?"
The lacrosse player raised his hand.
"I'll go. Hi, I'm Mark. I'm an alcoholic."
"Hi, Mark," the room chorused. Emily whispered it. Greta stayed silent, chewing the inside of her cheek.
"So." Mark rubbed his neck. "I almost slipped this weekend. The team had a mixer. Kegs everywhere. The pressure was… a lot. I stood by the cooler for ten minutes. Just staring at it."
He looked at his hands.
"I didn't drink. Grabbed a soda and left early. But I wanted to. I really wanted to. And I feel guilty for wanting it."
Tragen nodded slowly. He didn't interrupt. Just listened, his scarred face locked in absolute, non-judgmental attention.
"The want doesn't make you guilty, Mark," Tragen said softly. "The action is what matters. You walked away. That's a victory. A quiet one, but a victory."
The meeting flowed.
It wasn't like the movies. No screaming. No dramatic breakdowns. Just people.
The pink-haired girl talked about her anxiety medication. The grad student talked about his thesis driving him to the bottle.
Greta sat there, invisible behind her sunglasses.
She tried to tune it out. Focus on the hum of the vending machine. The throbbing ache in her skull.
But the stories seeped in.
She heard the desperation. The fear of losing control. The same loop of self-hatred that played in her own head every time she woke up sick.
Emily kept glancing at her, checking to see if she was going to explode or bolt.
Greta just sat there, leg bouncing, knuckles white where she gripped her own elbows.
Eventually, the circle quieted.
Tragen's gaze swept the room.
It landed on Emily. Emily froze.
Then it slid to Greta.
Greta tensed. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Don't ask me. Don't you dare ask me to speak. I will tell you to go to hell.
Tragen looked at her. He saw the sunglasses indoors. The defensive posture. The girl holding herself together with duct tape and spite.
He held her gaze for a long second.
Greta braced for the prompt. Hi, I'm Greta, and I'm a mess.
Tragen smiled. Small, sad, knowing.
He didn't ask.
He nodded once, respectfully, and moved his eyes to the next person.
"Anyone else have something to share?"
Greta let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her shoulders dropped half an inch.
He knew. And he let her be.
For the first time since she walked through the door, she didn't feel like running. She just felt seen. And that was more terrifying than the demon in the alley.
The final person to speak was sitting directly across from Greta.
Polo shirt with a popped collar. Boat shoes. Leaning back in his chair, balancing on the rear legs, checking his smartwatch every thirty seconds.
"So," the guy drawled. "My name is Bryce. And I'm here because the Dean has a stick up his ass."
Nervous chuckles rippled through the room. Tragen didn't laugh. He just watched.
"I got busted with a keg in the dorms." Bryce rolled his eyes."Which is ridiculous, because I bought it for everyone. But the RA is a narc. So now I have to do six of these meetings or my dad makes a 'donation' to the alumni fund." He smirked. "Honestly? The donation is looking cheaper by the minute."
He looked around for validation.
"Like, I don't have a problem. I just like to party. Everyone here needs to chill. It's college. We're supposed to get wasted."
Greta felt a buzzing in her ears.
It started low, like a fly trapped in her skull, and grew louder with every word out of Bryce's mouth.
The entitlement. The boredom. The way he treated this room—a room full of people bleeding, people fighting for their lives—like it was detention hall.
Her headache spiked. Her skin crawled.
"Hey," Greta said.
Barely a whisper.
Bryce didn't hear her. "—so anyway, I'm just gonna sit here, check the box, and get back to—"
"Hey." Louder.
The room went silent. Bryce stopped mid-sentence.
"You talking to me, shades?" He smirked.
Greta lowered her sunglasses slowly. Her eyes were bloodshot, ringed with dark circles, burning with cold fury.
"Is this funny to you?"
Her voice was trembling. Not with fear—with the effort of keeping the scream inside her throat.
Bryce blinked. Laughed nervously. "Whoa. Relax, psycho. I'm just telling my story. That's the rule, right?"
"You're a tourist," Greta whispered.
"Excuse me?"
"You're a fucking tourist." Her voice rose. "You're here visiting. Looking at the animals in the zoo. You think because daddy can buy a building, you can just sit there and mock people who are actually dying?"
"Greta, stop." Emily tugged on her flannel.
Greta swatted her hand away. She stood up. The chair scraped against the concrete.
"You think this is a game?" She stepped into the circle, pointing a shaking finger at Bryce. "You think we're here because we like it? You think I want to be sitting in a basement listening to your frat-boy bullshit while my skin feels like it's on fire?"
"Hey, chill the fuck out, junkie." Bryce's smirk faltered."You look like you need a fix, not a lecture."
That was the spark.
Greta screamed—a raw, guttural sound—and grabbed her folding chair.
She didn't throw it at him. She threw it at the wall.
CRASH.
The chair smashed into the coffee table, shattering the pot and scattering donuts across the floor. The room erupted in gasps. The pink-haired girl shrieked. Bryce scrambled back, falling out of his chair in a tangle of limbs.
"I AM NOT A JOKE!" Greta screamed, spinning to face the whole room. "NONE OF THIS IS A JOKE! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO FUCKING SUFFER!"
She was panting, heaving, standing in the center of the circle like a cornered animal.
The silence that followed was total.
Greta stood there, chest rising and falling, the adrenaline crash hitting her all at once. The rage evaporated, leaving her hollow and trembling.
She looked to her left.
Emily was sitting there. Not moving. Just staring up at Greta with wide eyes.
Tears rolling silently down her cheeks. She looked terrified. Not of the chair.
Of Greta.
The sight hit harder than any fist.
"I…" Greta choked out.
She looked at the overturned chair. Bryce cowering on the floor. Emily's tears.
She couldn't be here. She couldn't be seen like this.
Greta turned and ran.
She shoved the door open and disappeared into the hallway.
"Greta! Wait!" Emily scrambled up, knocked her own chair over, and chased after her.
The door slammed shut.
The room was silent.
Students looked at each other, shocked, uncomfortable, waiting for the authority figure to restore order.
Tragen didn't move.
He sat in his wooden chair, massive hands resting on his knees. He looked at the dent the chair had made in the wall. He looked at the door where the girl in the sunglasses had just detonated.
Most professors would have been angry. Most would have been reaching for their phone to call security.
Tragen stroked his beard.
A slow, thoughtful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His eyes weren't filled with judgment.
They were filled with recognition.
"Fire," Tragen murmured to himself. "That one has fire."