Professor Tragen sat in his reinforced wooden chair; the one that groaned under his lumberjack-who-wrestles-bears physique like it was filing a formal complaint. He wore the same tweed blazer with the suede elbow patches, his beard a tangled briar patch that hadn't seen a comb since the Reagan administration.
Room 104 smelled of stale anxiety and cheap floor wax, the particular scent of school spaces where people came to fall apart in organized fashion.
The usual suspects occupied their usual metal chairs.
Mark, the varsity lacrosse player, was staring at his sneakers with the thousand-yard stare of someone who hadn't slept in three days. The pink-haired girl was aggressively chewing her thumbnail down to the quick. The nervous grad student was systematically shredding a Styrofoam cup into white confetti, her lap slowly filling with evidence of her anxiety.
The only difference from Monday was the empty chair across the circle.
The one where Bryce; the polo-shirt-wearing, boat-shoe-sporting tourist who had tried to compare his "wine addiction" to Greta's situation, had sat before the incident. There was a fresh white patch of spackle on the wall behind it, marking the impact site of the folding chair. Bryce, wisely, had decided his father's donation to the university was cheaper than a concussion and had not returned.
Tragen checked his watch. He cleared his throat, a sound like a diesel engine turning over on a cold morning.
BAM.
The heavy oak door swung open, hitting the stopper with a dull thud that made half the room flinch.
The low murmur of anxious small talk died instantly. Mark looked up. The grad student froze mid-shred, a piece of Styrofoam suspended between her fingers.
Greta stood in the doorway.
She looked exactly as she had on Monday; leather jacket, combat boots, beanie pulled low over her eyes, but instead of a weaponized folding chair, she was holding a massive cardboard box. Her sunglasses were gone, revealing dark circles that looked like bruises, but her jaw was set in a line of stubborn, terrified defiance.
The look of someone who had shown up to her own execution and was determined to at least be on time.
Emily stood just behind her, peeking over Greta's shoulder with a nervous, apologetic wave that seemed to say please don't call security.
The room held its breath. They were remembering the scream. They were remembering the shattered coffee pot. They were remembering the drywall crater.
They were waiting for Round Two.
Greta didn't say a word.
She kept her head down, hair falling over her eyes like a curtain, and marched straight past the circle to the refreshment table in the back corner. Her boots struck the linoleum with the deliberate rhythm of someone who would turn and flee if she let herself hesitate for even a second.
The refreshment table currently held a box of sad-looking glazed donuts and the tragic remains of the coffee urn she had destroyed, now just a cold hot plate and a handwritten sign that read: OUT OF ORDER.
Greta set the box down with a heavy thud. She whipped a pocket knife out of her jeans, sliced the tape with more force than necessary, and ripped the flaps open. She pulled out the shiny, chrome-plated industrial brewer she had purchased at 7 AM from a store she hated, in a mall she despised, surrounded by morning people she wanted to murder.
She plugged it in.
The sound of the French Vanilla grounds bag being ripped open was the only noise in the room; a loud, aggressive noise that made the nervous grad student jump.
Scoop. Scoop. Pour.
Greta hit the power button. The machine gurgled to life, the familiar hiss-drip of brewing coffee filling the silence like a white flag being raised.
Only then did she turn around.
She leaned back against the refreshment table, crossed her arms over her chest, and stared resolutely at a spot on the floor approximately six feet in front of her.
"Fresh pot," she mumbled.
Emily stepped into the room, smile stretched so wide it looked painful.
"Hi, everyone!" Emily's voice cut through the tension like she was trying to defuse a bomb with aggressive cheerfulness. "Sorry we're late! Traffic was just—you know—a complete nightmare. The Schuylkill was backed up for miles. And we brought coffee! The good kind! Not the battery acid kind that was here before!"
A few of the students exhaled. Mark gave a tentative, confused nod that suggested he wasn't entirely sure this wasn't an elaborate prank.
Professor Tragen rose from his groaning chair.
He walked over to the refreshment table, his sheer size making the room feel smaller with every step. He looked from the shiny new machine to Greta, who was refusing to make eye contact with either him or the wall she had dented.
"I must admit," Tragen rumbled, his voice low enough that only Greta and Emily could hear, "I was expecting a withdrawal form. Or perhaps a cease-and-desist letter from the university's legal department. Not a kitchen appliance."
"She bought it herself," Emily whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. "She went to the store at seven in the morning, Professor. She hates the store. She says it's her personal hell. She once told me she'd rather fight a bear than go to Target before noon."
Tragen raised a bushy eyebrow. He looked at Greta, really looked at her, and saw the exhaustion carved into her posture, the way her hands were trembling slightly inside her jacket pockets. He saw the girl who had run out screaming on Monday standing here on Thursday with a peace offering clutched like a shield.
"It is a very nice machine," Tragen noted softly. "And French Vanilla. A distinct upgrade from the institutional sludge we had before."
He turned back to the room, clapping his hands once. The sound was like a gunshot, making everyone jump.
"Alright!" Tragen announced, his voice projecting with infectious, booming energy. "Let's bring it in! Take your seats! And let's try to keep the furniture on the floor today, shall we? Gravity is a law, not a suggestion!"
He gestured to an empty chair near the back of the circle—the safe zone, far from the door and the drywall patch.
"Greta. Grab a seat."
Greta hesitated for one long moment. Then she grabbed a Styrofoam cup, filled it with scalding black coffee, and walked over to the circle with the careful steps of someone crossing a minefield.
She sat down, hunched forward, clutching the cup like a lifeline thrown to a drowning person.
Emily sat next to her, looking simultaneously relieved that Greta hadn't fled and terrified of what might happen next.
"Welcome back," Tragen said, lowering himself into his groaning wooden chair. He looked at Greta, his eyes twinkling with that same intense curiosity he had shown on Monday; like she was a puzzle he was genuinely interested in solving. "Let's begin."
The meeting moved with the slow, heavy rhythm of a tide coming in.
Mark finished talking about the pressure of the upcoming playoffs, the temptation to numb the anxiety with whatever was available, the voice in his head that said one drink won't hurt, you've earned it. He sat back when he was done, looking lighter somehow—like he had set down a heavy backpack he'd forgotten he was carrying.
Tragen nodded, stroking his beard with the thoughtfulness of a philosopher contemplating the nature of existence.
"Pressure is a funny thing, Mark," Tragen rumbled, his voice filling the quiet spaces of the room. "It creates diamonds, yes. But it also bursts pipes. The difference isn't the strength of the pipe, it's the release valve. This room? This is the valve. You let the steam out here, so you don't explode out there."
The students nodded. Classic Tragen: simple, vaguely industrial metaphors delivered with the conviction of a prophet who had worked construction in a previous life.
Tragen's eyes scanned the circle. They moved past the nervous grad student, past the pink-haired girl, and landed gently on the unexpected addition.
"Emily," Tragen said.
Emily jumped in her chair, nearly spilling her coffee. "Oh! I'm just here for moral support. Like I said earlier. I'm not—I don't have a problem. I mean, I have problems, but not that kind of—"
"We are all here for support," Tragen interrupted warmly. "But the chair you are sitting in is occupied by you, not your roommate. And in this room, if you occupy the chair, you own the floor."
He leaned forward, his massive hands clasped loosely between his knees.
"You don't have to speak," Tragen added. "Silence is a valid sentence. But you look like someone who has been holding her breath for a very long time. And eventually, Emily, people who hold their breath too long start to drown."
Emily looked down at her hands. She twisted a silver ring on her finger; around and around and around. She looked sideways at Greta.
Greta was staring into her Styrofoam cup like it contained the secrets of the universe, or at least a way out of this room. She didn't look up, but she didn't tense up either. She just let out a long, sharp exhale through her nose and gave a barely perceptible nod.
Go ahead.
Emily took a deep, shaky breath. She looked at Tragen, then at the floor, then at some middle distance where she didn't have to see anyone's face.
"I met Greta freshman year," Emily started. Her voice was small, trembling at the edges. "We were randomly assigned roommates in the dorms. Everyone told me to request a transfer because she looked… scary. My parents literally asked if I felt safe."
A few people chuckled softly. Greta's lip twitched, but she didn't look up.
"But she wasn't scary," Emily continued, her voice gaining a little strength. "She was funny. And smart. And she defended me when this senior guy tried to corner me at a party—she got right in his face and told him she'd break every finger on his hand if he touched me again. She was… she was my best friend. My first real friend in college."
Emily paused. Her hands were twisting the ring faster now, the silver catching the fluorescent light.
"But then sophomore year happened. And it stopped being fun. It started being… dark."
She swallowed hard, fighting the lump rising in her throat.
"I started finding bottles hidden in the toilet tank. In the back of the closet. Behind the textbooks she never opened. I started finding her passed out in the hallway at 3 AM, or in the bathroom with the door locked, or just—gone. Disappeared for days without telling me where she was going."
Emily's voice cracked.
"I started waking up in the middle of the night because she was screaming in her sleep. These horrible, terrified screams, like something was chasing her. And when I'd try to wake her up, she'd swing at me. She gave me a black eye once. She didn't even remember it the next morning."
Emily looked at Greta's profile; the sharp jawline, the dark circles, the leather jacket that served as armor against a world that had never been kind to her.
"And the worst part is…" Emily whispered, tears starting to track down her cheeks. "I didn't stop it. I covered for her. I lied to the RAs when they asked about the noise. I cleaned up the messes. I dragged her into bed when she couldn't walk. I held her hair back while she got sick. I thought I was helping. I thought if I just loved her enough, if I was a good enough friend, she would stop."
A sob broke through her voice, jagged and painful.
"But she didn't stop. She just got worse. And every time I cover for her, I feel like… like I'm handing her the shovel to dig her own grave. I feel like I'm killing her by trying to save her."
The room was absolutely silent. Even the hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to fade, like the building itself was holding its breath.
Emily buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.
"I'm just so tired," she cried. "I'm so scared I'm going to come home one day and she just won't wake up. And it'll be my fault because I didn't do enough. Or because I did too much. Or because I should have told someone and I didn't."
Greta had gone rigid in her chair. Her knuckles were white around the coffee cup, gripping it so hard the Styrofoam was starting to crack. She wasn't looking at Emily, but her jaw was clenched so tight a muscle was jumping in her cheek.
Tragen let the silence hang for a moment; respectful, heavy, necessary.
"Emily," Tragen said softly.
He waited until she looked up, eyes red and wet and devastated.
"You are the lighthouse," Tragen told her, his voice gentle as it ever got. "You are not the captain of her ship. You can shine the light. You can warn her about the rocks. But you cannot steer the boat for her. And you certainly cannot be blamed if she decides to crash."
He leaned back, the wooden chair creaking under his weight.
"You have carried a very heavy stone for a very long time," Tragen said. "Thank you for putting it down. Even if it's just for a moment. Even if you pick it back up when you leave this room. Thank you for letting us see it."
He turned his head. Slowly. Deliberately.
He looked at the girl in the leather jacket.
"Greta," Tragen said.
Greta didn't move. She stared into the black liquid in her cup like she could drown in it if she tried hard enough.
"Your friend just unpacked a lot of luggage," Tragen said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming serious and piercing. "She bled for you just now. Right here in this circle. In front of strangers."
Greta's grip on the cup tightened. More hairline cracks appeared in the Styrofoam.
"I think," Tragen said quietly, "that you owe her a few words. Don't you?"
Greta's metal chair scraped loudly against the linoleum as she dragged it from the back row into the center of the circle.
In the silent basement, the sound was violent; a screech of steel on tile that seemed to last forever, making everyone wince.
She sat down. She didn't cross her legs or lean back or adopt any of the defensive postures she usually wore like armor. She sat on the edge of the seat, elbows on her knees, staring at a scuff mark on the toe of her combat boot.
The air in the room pressurized.
Emily was crying silently, pressing a tissue to her mouth to muffle the sound. The nervous grad student had stopped shredding her cup entirely. Even Mark, whose leg usually bounced with the frequency of a hummingbird's wing, was perfectly still.
Greta took a breath. It rattled in her chest, heavy and wet.
"I was in the system since I was five," Greta said.
Her voice was flat, stripped of its usual sarcasm and bite. It was the voice of someone reciting facts about a stranger's life.
"Foster care."
She began to pick at her thumbnail, tearing at the cuticle until a thin line of blood appeared.
"You know how people return clothes that don't fit? That was me. Six houses in four years. Too loud. Too angry. Too much trouble." She laughed—a short, bitter sound. "'Return to sender.' That's what one of my case workers actually wrote in my file. I saw it when I was twelve. 'Difficult to place. Return to sender.'"
She looked up then, scanning the room with eyes that were dry and bloodshot and burning with something between rage and resignation.
"I learned pretty early that nobody actually wants you unless you're useful or you're quiet," she rasped. "I was neither. So I made myself useful in other ways. I got mean. I got fast. I got good at disappearing before people could throw me away first."
She looked back down at her hands—the hands that had held a divine axe less than twelve hours ago, that had swung at demons and monsters and things that shouldn't exist.
"Found pills in high school. Raided a foster mom's medicine cabinet while she was passed out drunk on the couch. Wasn't peer pressure. I didn't 'fall in with the wrong crowd.'" She made air quotes, her voice dripping with contempt for the phrase. "I was the wrong crowd. I was the one parents warned their kids about."
A pause. The room waited.
"It just… turned the volume down," Greta said quietly. "Made the noise in my head stop screaming for five fucking minutes. Made me feel like I wasn't crawling out of my own skin."
A small, bitter smile touched her lips. It didn't reach her eyes.
"Got expelled from three schools in Philly. Finally landed at a Charter Academy. Last chance saloon—they literally told me that. 'This is your last chance, Greta. Don't screw it up.' And that's where I found track."
She laughed again. It was a short, broken sound, like glass grinding against glass.
"God, I was fast. I was so fucking fast. When that starting gun went off, I wasn't Greta the orphan, or Greta the screw-up, or Greta the return-to-sender kid. I was just… motion. I didn't need the pills when I was running. The running was the high. I broke state records. I was untouchable."
"You were amazing, G," Emily whispered, her voice thick with tears. "I watched the videos. You were incredible."
Greta didn't look at her. She couldn't.
"I got the offer," Greta continued. "Quaker University. Full athletic scholarship. The golden ticket out of the gutter. Out of the system. Out of everything."
Her face hardened. The nostalgia vanished, replaced by cold, gray reality.
"But then I got here. And there were no foster parents checking my room. No case workers doing surprise visits. No coaches watching my every move. Just freedom."
She gripped her knees, leather jacket creaking.
"And freedom is dangerous when you hate yourself."
She stared at the floor.
"I did everything. Pills. Powder. Liquid. Whatever I could find to make the pressure stop. I stopped going to practice. I stopped eating. I stopped sleeping. I went from a four-minute mile to passing out in the locker room with my face in my own vomit."
She looked directly at Professor Tragen.
"Coach cut me at the beginning of this semester. Took the scholarship. And that was it. The only thing that made me worth anything… gone. Just like that. Return to sender."
She leaned back, the defiance draining out of her posture, leaving behind a terrifying, cavernous emptiness.
"I have no family to call. I have no money. I have a roommate I treat like garbage because she's the only person who hasn't left me yet, and I keep waiting for her to figure out she should."
She glanced at Emily then. Her voice cracked, splintering down the middle like a frozen lake giving way.
"And I realized yesterday… I don't have a safety net anymore. If I fall again, I don't bounce back. I just hit the ground and stay there."
She looked at her hands. She thought about the alley behind the factory. The demon fire. Caligo's dead eyes. Seraphile's cold golden stare and the promise delivered in that beautiful, terrible voice: If you relapse, the demons won't have to kill you. I will.
"I saw something recently," Greta whispered. "Something that showed me exactly where I'm heading if I don't stop. It wasn't a metaphor. It wasn't a rock bottom story from someone else's life."
She shuddered a visceral, full-body flinch.
"It was a promise. Of exactly what's waiting for me if I keep going down this road."
She stopped. Looked around the circle. Looked at the faces of strangers who had just heard the ugliest parts of her life laid out like evidence at a trial.
"I'm not here because I want to get better," Greta said, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the room. "I'm here because I am absolutely, completely, utterly terrified of dying. And I'm more terrified of what comes after."
She wiped her nose with her sleeve and pulled her beanie down further over her eyes.
"That's it," she muttered. "That's the story. Return to sender. The end."
The silence that followed was heavy, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
It was reverent. It was the sound of a room full of broken people recognizing their own reflection in someone else's cracks.
Tragen watched Greta for a long moment, his ancient eyes taking her measure.
"Thank you, Greta," Tragen said finally, his voice quiet but resonating with that cello-like depth. "That took courage. More courage than it takes to run a four-minute mile. More courage than most people show in their entire lives."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, making himself smaller to meet her eye-to-eye.
"But I have to ask. You said you have nothing left. No family. No team. No net." He paused. "So why are you here? Why today? What's the spark that made you walk through that door instead of walking off the edge?"
Greta glanced around nervously. The eyes of the room were still on her, but they weren't judging. They were waiting. Hoping, maybe.
She looked at her boots. At the cracked linoleum floor. At the coffee machine she'd bought at 7 AM because she felt bad about breaking the old one.
When she looked back up, her defenses were gone. The hard shell of the street kid had cracked open, revealing the terrified twenty-one-year-old underneath. Her eyes swam with tears she refused to let fall.
"Because I don't want to disappear," Greta whispered, her voice breaking. "I don't want to be another name on a list that nobody reads. I don't want Emily to come home and find me and have to live with that for the rest of her life."
She took a shaky breath.
"I'm scared, Professor. I'm just… I'm really fucking scared."
Tragen nodded slowly. He didn't offer a platitude. He didn't tell her everything would be okay. He just sat with her words, giving them the weight they deserved.
"Fear is good," Tragen said gently. "Fear is the body's way of saying you still have something left to lose. Fear is the fuel, Greta. You just have to decide where to drive the car."
He smiled—a genuine, warm expression that crinkled the scars on his forehead.
"Welcome to the starting line."
DOO-DOO-DOO-DOO! DOO-DOO-DOO-DOO!
The moment shattered.
Tragen's phone, sitting on the table next to the donut box, exploded into the opening synth riff of Europe's "The Final Countdown."
The volume was set to maximum. It was loud enough to wake the dead, summon demons, and probably violate several noise ordinances.
The students jumped. The grad student dropped her cup of shredded Styrofoam, scattering confetti across the floor. The tension in the room evaporated instantly, replaced by the surreal absurdity of an 80s arena rock anthem.
Tragen checked his watch with theatrical surprise.
"And that is the buzzer!" he announced, standing up and slapping his knees. "Time flies when you're processing trauma! Go! Be productive! Drink water! And remember: perfection is a myth, but progress is mandatory!"
The circle broke. Students shuffled toward the door, looking lighter than they had when they'd arrived, murmuring goodbyes and see-you-next-weeks.
Emily stood up slowly. She looked at Greta, her mouth opening and closing like she was trying to find words that didn't exist in any language.
Greta stood up abruptly, the vulnerability too raw, too exposed. The armor slammed back into place like a prison door. She reached into her pocket, pulled out her sunglasses, and shoved them onto her face.
"Let's go," Greta muttered, turning toward the door. "I need a nap. And food. And to never talk about my feelings again for at least six months."
She took two steps toward freedom.
A heavy hand landed on her shoulder.
Greta froze. Turned around.
Professor Tragen was looming over her, his shadow blocking the fluorescent lights. But he wasn't blocking her path—he was anchoring her.
"Greta," Tragen said. The humor was gone from his voice, replaced by serious, intense warmth. "You did good today. You took the bricks out of the backpack. That's the hardest part."
Greta adjusted her sunglasses, staring at his chin because eye contact was too much. "Yeah. Sure. Can I go now?"
"One more thing. Tomorrow morning. My office. Nine AM."
Greta stiffened. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to lie, to say she had class or work or a highly contagious disease.
"I think I have a—"
She looked at Emily. Emily was watching her with eyes full of hope and fear and desperate, fragile optimism.
Greta sighed. It was a defeated sound, but it wasn't angry.
"Fine," she grunted. "Nine AM. But if you try to make me do a trust fall, I'm suing the university and everyone in it."
Tragen let out a roar of laughter that shook the ceiling tiles.
"Deal!" he bellowed.
He turned to Emily. Before the small nursing student could react, Tragen swept her up into a bear hug that lifted her six inches off the floor.
"And you!" Tragen shouted, squeezing her like she was a stress toy. "The Lighthouse! Keep shining, child! You have a tough ship to guide, but you're doing fantastic!"
"Can't… breathe…" Emily squeaked, feet dangling.
Tragen dropped her. "Right! Off you go! Both of you! Scram!"
The walk back from the Student Union was quiet.
The morning air was crisp and cold, a stark contrast to the humid emotion of the basement. Dead leaves skittered across the pavement like they were trying to escape something.
They walked side by side; Greta with her hands shoved deep in her jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind and the world, walking fast like she could outrun what had just happened. Emily kept pace, her breath forming little clouds of steam.
They reached the corner of 34th and Walnut. The light was red.
They stopped.
Greta reached for her cigarettes out of habit, then remembered she'd thrown them away two days ago. Her hand hovered awkwardly for a moment before retreating back into her pocket.
"So," Greta muttered, staring at the traffic light like it owed her money. "That happened."
Emily didn't answer.
Then, without warning, without a sound, Emily turned and threw her arms around Greta.
It wasn't a polite hug. It was a collision. Emily buried her face in Greta's chest, wrapping her arms tight around the leather jacket, holding on like Greta was the only solid thing in a world that kept shifting beneath her feet.
Greta stiffened. Her arms stayed pinned to her sides, rigid and awkward.
"Em," Greta grumbled. "Don't. People are watching. This is embarrassing."
Emily didn't let go. She squeezed tighter, her shoulders shaking with a fresh wave of silent sobs.
"Shut up," Emily muffled into the leather. "Just shut up for once, G."
Greta stood there, frozen, uncomfortable, completely out of her depth. She looked at the red light. She looked at the college students walking past with their backpacks and their coffee cups and their lives that had never included foster care or pills or divine threats.
She felt the warmth of Emily's body through the layers of clothes. She felt the dampness of tears soaking into her hoodie.
And slowly—painfully slowly—the tension leaked out of her frame.
Her hands came out of her pockets. She wrapped her arms around Emily.
She pulled her roommate in, resting her chin on top of Emily's head. She closed her eyes behind the sunglasses and let out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for twenty-one years.
"I got you," Greta whispered, her voice rough and raw. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?" Emily's voice was muffled, broken.
Greta tightened her grip.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "I promise."
They stood there on the street corner, ignoring the light turning green, ignoring the people who had to walk around them, ignoring everything except the simple act of holding each other up.
Two girls who had somehow become each other's family, standing against the weight of the world.
The light turned red again.
They still didn't move.