"Can you expand on that?" Dr. Carson asks, though the question only makes me want to shrink into nothing.

I can't believe I'm here. I can't believe I'm talking about this. I can't believe I admitted to it. I'm such a mess. All I had to do was deflect!

"I… it… so I had… or I guess I have these… dreams, right? I mean like, everybody dreams, but I had the same dream every night and it always made waking up really difficult because of this weird sleep paralysis stuff that… we don't really need to talk about that yet, the point is that I'd been seeing another therapist for a really long time. A year or two, I think. And eventually my mom pressed me about maybe changing therapists, because my first therapist wasn't really helping me. And like, they weren't helping me, that was true, and there's not really any point in telling her no anyway, so we changed therapists. Same time slot, once a week, every Monday after school. I went to the new guy instead of the old guy, and… yeah. Um. He was a sex predator, I guess!"

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Shut up, Hannah. Stop talking. 'He was a sex predator, I guess?' Are you fucking braindead? He ruined lives. I hate that phrase. 'Sex predator.' It makes me cringe. It's wrong for me to say it, somehow.

"So by the time you started seeing him, you were already used to going to see a therapist every week," Dr. Carson summarizes. "That's something, but I'm inclined to suspect that there were additional extenuating circumstances surrounding the fact that you identified this man as a sex predator and continued seeing him anyway. Was he at all helpful in regards to the dreams you mentioned?"

That's simple enough. Easy question. I can answer that.

"Not at all," I say, shaking my head. No one was and no one will be.

"Was he helpful in terms of any other problems you were having? Or perhaps as a better way to phrase the question: did he make you believe that he was being helpful? That he would help? That he could help?"

"No, no, and no," I tell her. "He tried, I think. He definitely encouraged me to keep attending, telling me I was making progress when I wasn't and asking me to trust him about that. I don't know if it was purposeful manipulation or he was just Dunning-Krugered all the way up his own crusty butt, but it was recognizable abuse either way."

Stop talking, stop admitting to it. Stop it, stop it, stop it. I feel my heart rate increasing, both with my own alien senses and with the normal, expected sensation of my chest aching ever so slightly, adrenaline spiking as every breath I take comes tinged with fear.

"I looked it up once he really creeped me out and familiarized myself with methods of abuse so I could look out for it," I continue anyway. "Immunize myself. So, y'know, I'm fine. I made sure he couldn't hurt me."

Except that's obviously a lie, I know that's a lie, I'm standing here right now about to have a breakdown just from thinking about it, how could you be such a fucking dumbass, Hannah?

"Okay I mean that's obviously bull cheese," I amend before the doctor can do it, just so I don't have to suffer through the pain of having someone else tell me how fucking stupid I am when I already know that, "but that was my thought process at the time."

The therapist nods slowly, her hand rapidly scratching out more notes on how much of a complete mess I am.

"So I recall you said that, when you told your mother about this, she responded by taking legal action against your abuser—legal action which was successful," she says.

"Um, yeah," I nod.

"Are you dissatisfied with how that turned out?"

"Uh. No, that was good," I say, shrinking down on myself a little. "That's what should have happened from day one. I should have told her sooner."

"Yet you didn't," Dr. Carson says, "and in my experience there tend to be reasons why people might go out of their way to avoid something that seems, from an outside perspective, to be the most straightforward solution. For example, in abuse cases like this one, the abuser will often establish themselves as an essential element to the victim's life, such as by making the victim believe that no one else can help them or by manufacturing forms of physical or emotional blackmail. But you've mentioned that you were cognizant of these tactics, and you believe that you successfully avoided them. Therefore, I have to wonder what outside pressures discouraged you from telling your family that you were suffering earlier."

I shrug, swallowing nervously.

"Nothing, really," I say. "I don't have an excuse."

"Hannah," Dr. Carson says softly, "you are a victim. There's no part of this you need to be 'excused' for."

I shake my head, because she couldn't be more wrong. I try to tell her as much, but words don't come out. Only a sob. Clamping my hand over my mouth, I squeeze my eyes shut to try and stifle the tears. Damn it. Damn it! How is she doing this!? It's barely been five minutes and I'm already spilling everything out for her. Is she a mind reader or something?

…Ha. Hahahahaha. Oh holy fuck no nope let's just shove that thought all the way into the box. If my suspicions are correct, the act of trying to check if she has a soul might be what gives her one; the only people I've seen with souls are all people who have been in the direct presence of the Goddess while I cast a spell, after all. Plus the whole Pneuma magic trauma is like, way down the list of things I need a therapist for, so that's probably second or third-session stuff.

Which means we will hopefully never need to address it at all.

"Ignoring how it ultimately turned out," she asks after giving me a minute to compose myself, "did you feel safe telling your parents what was going on?"

I bark out a laugh.

"Safe?" I ask. "Of course it was safe. It's not like my parents are abusing me. They've never… y'know, hit me or touched me like that or even yelled at me, really. I have the best parents out of anyone I know, period."

It's objectively true, even if it feels hollow to say.

"Allow me to rephrase, then," Dr. Carson says. "Were you comfortable with the idea of telling your parents? How did the idea of telling them make you feel?"

"What?" I ask. "Um. Well, pretty bad, I guess. That's why I didn't tell them. But it's not like I had a good reason, right? I should have told them immediately. I absolutely needed to, and I just… didn't."

Dr. Carson crosses her legs, leaning forward a bit to give me a serious look.

"Hannah," she says, "one of the most important jobs a parent has is protecting their children from exactly this sort of situation. Education is a powerful tool for that, but communication is even stronger. If you have found yourself preferring the continued company of a child molester to having an honest conversation with your own family, your family has failed you. Ask yourself: is it your duty to trust your parents unconditionally, or is it the duty of a parent to be someone their daughter can trust?"

I freeze, not knowing how to react to those words. I want to walk over to the couch and sit down, or preferably just collapse on the spot, curling into a ball on the floor, but instead I do nothing, not wanting to give more validity to the realization that those words have profoundly affected me on some level I do not understand.

It's right and yet it's wrong. My family failed me? My family did everything they could with what they knew. My family always looks out for me, and yet I always flee from them. How is that anything other than my failure?

"I'm supposed to trust her," I answer. "She's my mom. We don't always agree on stuff but I know, I always knew, that she would be in my corner on this. She hasn't ever done anything to make me think otherwise. I was just being absurd and irrational like I always am, sticking to my stupid routine even when it was hurting people. That's who I am."

"Hmm," Dr. Carson considers. "Do you think you're limited to that?"

"Well… no," I admit. "I mean, maybe. It's not like I've ever successfully broken the habit. I have tried, it's just… I don't know how to do anything other than stay in my lane. I can't blame that on my mom, she pushes me to do new things all the time. She… how can I say she's failed me? I'm the one that keeps screwing up, over and over again. She's never abused me."

She thinks for a moment, tapping her pencil against her notepad.

"I find that we often think of abuse primarily in terms of the physical or sexual," the therapist says, "and even when emotional abuse is brought up it is in the context of negative emotions: anger, hatred, apathy, and so on. We as people are inherently prone to thinking of things this way because we are inherently attracted to simplifying the world into something more understandable. When a parent does a bad thing to a child, we want it to be because the parent is a bad person. And this is certainly often the case: individuals prone to hate and cruelty have children, abuse those children, and—if the children are lucky—they find themselves in a support group or an office like mine, seeking out a way to recover the damage their minds have been subjected to. These are real and serious problems, but they overshadow other real and serious problems. They make it harder to see the severe damage that can still be done by parents who love their children very much. Because we are human, and we make mistakes, and mistakes can still hurt people even when they are performed with the best of intentions."

I hug myself. I want to hug myself with four more limbs, but I can't. Not here. I'm not safe here.

"You told me you had 'no good reason' to avoid telling your parents," Dr. Carson continues. "But in order for me to believe that's true, I would have to believe that your fear of your own family is arbitrary, rooted in absolutely nothing. I don't believe that. I think you can come up with plenty of complaints about your mother if you try."

Of course I can. It doesn't matter, though. It doesn't matter.

"My mom, she… I'm scared of her," I admit. "I'm scared of disappointing her. Because making sure she's satisfied is the only way to… to exist around her, I guess? Everything has to go her way. I can't argue with her because nothing I say matters. Every conversation is just a… a minefield of trying to figure out what she wants so I can give it to her. If I deviate from that, if I talk about anything I want to talk about or suggest anything she hasn't thought of it always goes wrong, I always regret it, one way or another. Not because she retaliates or hurts me or anything it's just… I don't know. I don't know! It's stupid and petty and it doesn't matter!"

"Your feelings are not stupid or petty," Dr. Carson insists.

"Yes they are!" I snap back. "Of course they are! None of that matters!"

"Why do you think that?"

"Because I wasn't his only patient!"

No. No no no. Calm down. Hannah don't raise your voice you idiot you can't do that you need to calm down. Why did you even say that? Monster. Monster. You fucking monster.

"I wasn't the only person he… he touched," I whisper. "And I knew that. I never met any of them but I knew that, of course I knew that. You see, what, twenty clients a week? Thirty? There's no way I was the only woman."

I'm crying again. Did I stop crying before? Whatever. It doesn't matter. She knows now. She knows how fucking weak I am.

"I could have stopped him so much sooner," I sob. "But I didn't, because I was too afraid of a woman that has never tried to hurt me in her entire life."

Those words take the last of my willpower with them, so I finally squat down onto the floor, hug my knees, and just start wailing, getting snot all over everything. Dr. Carson pushes a tissue box closer to me, but makes no move to approach like he would have. Because she's actually a therapist, not a monster pretending to be one. Or, for that matter, a monster pretending to be a girl.

I hate this. I hate everything. I hate myself. I cry and cry and cry for who knows how long, until the tears dry out. I can tell there are a lot of things Dr. Carson wants to say, but she says nothing, not pushing. Just waiting for me. I find it both very thoughtful and very annoying.

"You're going to tell me that I'm a victim and it isn't my fault," I grumble.

"Well, I would be wrong to ever imply otherwise," she says firmly. "And the sort of people who try to preempt my comments like that tend to also be the sort of people with enough self-awareness to already know that, at least on an intellectual level."

"I know he was hurting other people. Mom let it slip that I wasn't the only person giving testimony. And I just… let him. I think I deserve to feel pretty bad about that!"

"By that logic, aren't you claiming that every one of his victims is culpable in the suffering each other victim was subjected to?" Dr. Carson presses.

"No, it's different!" I insist. "I knew what he was doing, and my mom's a friggin' lawyer! I had all the power to prevent that situation and I just did nothing."

"Hmm. I think that even if we ignore the context of you being an abuse victim—which, again, we would be remiss to do—you're being awfully hard on yourself. Don't you think mistakes are something we should learn from, not something we should torment ourselves with?"

"But I don't learn," I insist. "I never learn."

"Would you say that blaming yourself is helping, in that case?" she asks simply.

I dig into the gouges in my shoes. Dang it.

"...No," I grumble. "I guess not."

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

"You aren't responsible for the pain caused by other people," Dr. Carson insists. "You don't have to feel guilty for being a victim. It's okay to not be strong enough."

I snort at that. I can't help it. It just seems empty, given my recent experiences.

"Oh?" the therapist asks, seeming interested in my reaction.

"Oh, it's just… how well does that advice scale up, I wonder?" I ask her. "How many people does my inaction have to hurt before it's definitely not okay?"

The tree burns. The tree bleeds. The tree starves. Is it really okay for me to not try and fix it? Dr. Carson takes a moment to think about that, bouncing one leg.

"...Ultimately, I think the best way to answer that question is that we don't really need to know the answer to that question," she says. "It's interesting in a philosophical and moral sense, but I don't think it's useful or helpful to think about issues of responsibility scaled beyond the scope of our reach. Something doesn't have to scale in order to be true for you. You are a high school student recovering from a traumatic event; you don't need to put the fate of the world on your shoulders."

I laugh again. Wrong answer, therapist. Very wrong indeed.

"That was a very unfortunate choice of words, Dr. Carson," I say, a humorless grin barely hidden behind my mask.

"Well, please accept my apologies," she responds, dipping her head politely. "Could you explain the issue so I can avoid using the relevant words in the future?"

"Ha. Uh. Golly. Well, remember how I referred to being groomed as 'the easy stuff?'" I ask. "That wasn't a joke."

She raises her eyebrows, nodding slowly.

"Are you comfortable talking about it?" she asks, taking me seriously. Damn it, she's good at her job.

"I… I mean, I don't know," I admit. "Like, this is confidential, right? Really really confidential?"

"There are certain conditions under which I would be required to share information you tell me," she answers. "Such as if you tell me you intend to commit serious harm to yourself or others, or if you tell me you intend to commit a crime."

"What about past crimes?" I ask.

"Only in extreme cases, such as… well, sexual assault or physical abuse against a minor, for one, but given your abuser is already convicted it's not an issue."

I swallow. Still squatting on the floor, I rock back and forth, working up the courage to ask my next questions.

"...What about murder?" I ask.

"If you tell me you intend to kill someone, I will report it," she says frankly. "But if you tell me you have already killed someone, I will almost certainly keep it between us. I take confidentiality very seriously, Hannah, and I will never disclose anything without your permission unless there is a clear and immediate threat to a person if I do not. Do you have any intention to hurt yourself or others?"

"No," I tell her, shaking my head fervently. "No, not at all."

"Then you may rest assured no one will ever hear of it," she promises.

Clack clack. I chomp my teeth twice, unable to hold back the urge with my willpower so frayed. Am I really going to do this? How stupid am I? I don't even know this woman.

"What if, hypothetically, I tell you something that completely changes the world," I say softly. "I break your understanding of Earth in half. I do something absolutely peanut-butter nutty, like… prove I'm an alien or something."

She smiles softly.

"I have seen more than you might think," she assures me. "I'm not as closed-minded as some other old women you might know."

I glower at her. Does she think this is about me being gay? How does everybody keep figuring that out, anyway?

"That's not an answer," I insist.

She inclines her head.

"Apologies. Then I shall promise that, even if you are from outer space, the, ah, secrets of your homeworld will be safe. Not a word will be spoken of it between anyone but the two of us."

She gives me a friendly smile, probably not at all understanding what she just promised. I glance towards the door, a clock in the wall above it indicating I still have over an hour left with this therapist. Darn extended session. Should I do it? Should I show her?

"I could just spend the rest of the time talking about my last therapist," I mutter. "The fact that I cried twice just talking about it probably means it's baggage I need to deal with, right?"

"Yes, we could do that if you prefer," Dr. Carson assures me, nodding amicably.

I don't know. I don't know what I prefer. I hiss very quietly, my limbs rubbing nervously against each other in 4D space.

"Should we?" I ask her.

"Well, I'm not sure I can answer that," she says. "Normally, we would use the first session to get to know one another, establish a baseline of what you want help with, and we'd more directly tackle the issues in future sessions. It's not bad or even particularly unusual to have a breakthrough right after walking in, and if you're feeling like you'd be best helped if we spend extra time and attention on talking about that trauma, I'd be happy to do so. I can't tell you how that compares to talking about any other issues you perceive, however, because you haven't told me what they are."

Not helpful. I just want her to make the decision for me. Take it out of my hands. But… I guess I have to tell her in order for her to do that. That basically counts, right? Fuck. Come on, think, what would Brendan do? How would he break this down for me? The main risk here is just the possibility that this woman is a liar and won't keep the secret. It doesn't get any worse than that, and that's a good thing, because my secret is probably going to come out pretty soon anyway. I haven't checked exactly where yet, but I assume that the spike in viewers on my stream yesterday was due to somebody tweeting a video of me or something and ending up popular on social media. So that's just gonna keep escalating.

And the upside is I get to talk to a professional about all those people I've eaten and I feel like I really need to do that. So. Um. Fuck! The answer is pretty obvious, huh? I should say something. I should.

I don't think I'm going to be strong enough to.

"I think I've had a panic attack every few days for the past month now," I squeak, since I think I'm about to have a panic attack.

Dr. Carson straightens up a bit, nodding to let me know she's listening without butting in.

"S-sorry, I need… gimme a sec," I choke, gulping for air as my brain starts to attack me once again. I ride out the rest of the attack in silence, ignoring the pain in my chest, the tears on my face, and the quiver in my jaw. I'm getting used to these, now. I hate that I'm getting used to these. When I can finally take a deep breath without shaking, I continue.

"So, um… no more easy stuff, I guess. I've killed four different people. Almost killed five, but my friend managed to stop me."

I'm shivering now, my face in my hands, but I can still feel Dr. Carson's expression, and even though it's mostly neutral I still feel judgment, surprise, doubt… I guess I'm probably imagining it, but who would believe me? Who would believe some random teenage waif when she comes in shaking like she just got back from a warzone?

"I don't… I'm not up to talking about how or where, I think," I mutter. "Too much. But I did. Okay? I killed four people. I ate some of them. And I just… fuck. I don't know if he made me do it or not, and I don't know what it would even mean if he did! It's not like I don't have the capacity without him, I just…"

I let out a pained groan. I'm not explaining this right. I'm not saying anything that makes sense.

"I can't," I whine. "I can't talk about this. It won't even make sense to you. I have to show you or it won't make any sense. I'm a monster, Dr. Carson. A literal, actual monster."

My legs twist and tap in another dimension, and I just want to pull them back through, show them to the world, rip it all off and just be free. But I'm scared. I'm so, so scared to be myself.

"The less human I become, the more comfortable I feel," I whisper. "How fucked up is that?"

Dr. Carson takes a few moments scribbling down more notes before she finally decides to answer.

"I've actually known quite a few people, especially neurodivergent people with histories of past abuse, who struggle to identify as human," she says. "Not in the sense that they don't understand that they are physically human, but merely in the sense that they find comfort in the concept of being physically other in the way that they have grown up understanding that they are mentally other, having had that otherness forcibly ingrained in them."

I snort out a laugh.

"Really?" I ask. "This is what we're talking about? Not the murder?"

"We can talk about whatever you want to talk about, Hannah," Dr. Carson says. "It need not even be on the subject of your mental health. If you want to talk about a favorite show or what you had for dinner last night, I'm happy to listen. This is just your first session, after all. I'm still learning about you, and you're still getting comfortable with me. Do you want to talk about the deaths you were involved in?"

"...No," I admit. "Not really."

"And that's okay," Dr. Carson says. "This is a process, Hannah. There's no need to get it out all at once."

"Well," I sniff, "what if I do a big ol' summary? Just quickly get everything off my chest without much context, because the context is scary."

"Sure!" Dr. Carson smiles, raising her pencil. "I'm ready to listen!"

"Okay. Cool. Um. I got mugged and almost bled out in the street a while ago. I recently got a girlfriend but I'm not out as gay to pretty much anybody but a couple of my friends and my family is super religious. Uh, I did something really fucked up to my girlfriend and gave her a panic attack and so I tried to break up with her because I'm dangerous to be around and she freaked the fuck out and started apologizing a lot and begging me to stay with her even though I just hurt her really bad, so that's a red flag I dunno what to do about. Um. Golly, what else. I got… mega-ultra-super gaslit by this guy I thought was my friend and now I have a little breakdown any time anybody reminds me of him. I keep getting these urges to bite people and eat them because people taste really good. And that's. Bad. Uh… I have really violent reflexes whenever I get surprised so I'm scared I'll hurt someone super bad by accident someday. Like, I really probably shouldn't be going to public school because I'm genuinely afraid I'll just stab someone on instinct if they catch me off-guard. Uh. I think I might have undiagnosed autism. That's mostly unrelated to the other stuff. Oh, the world is on fire and I feel directly responsible for finding a solution to that because it's apparently entirely caused by a predecessor of mine somehow. Um."

I pause, trying to think if I've missed anything.

"...That's all that comes to mind right now, at least in terms of stuff that makes any sense without context."

"I see," Dr. Carson says amicably, scribbling very quickly. "Is there any of this that you wanted to expand on right now?"

"Um," I mumble, fidgeting awkwardly. "Not really."

"That's perfectly fine," she assures me. "Is there anything you enjoy talking about?"

"I, uh, really like Pokémon," I say quietly.

"Would you like to talk about Pokémon?"

I swallow. This is embarrassing. Talking about Pokémon with a fifty year old woman that I'm paying to spend time with? Such a waste. But. I mean. She did ask.

"...Okay."

An hour later, Dr. Carson politely informs me that our time together is up. I stop ranting about how Spoink is my favorite Pokémon because he dies if he stops moving and instead start chastising myself for going on another rant, apologizing profusely to the doctor. She waves me off, assuring me she enjoyed talking with me, and I'm not really sure how to react to that. I feel like she hardly understood any of it, but I just… kept talking anyway. Agh. Stupid. I'm so stupid!

"The question now, Hannah, is if I've earned enough trust for a second session," Dr. Carson says as she stands up and opens the door for me. "I understand that this is a big leap of faith for you, especially given your past experiences, and I want to emphasize that choosing a different therapist or choosing to see no therapist are both perfectly valid choices."

I shrug helplessly.

"It's not really up to me," I tell her.

"Yes, it is," Dr. Carson says. "I want you to make the decision before we go back and speak with your mother. And whatever you think is best, I will back you up on."

What? Really? I mean… that might actually work, though. My mom is way more likely to listen to Dr. Carson than me.

"Why?" I ask incredulously. "You're the professional. Shouldn't you know what's best better than I would?"

She smiles.

"Well, I think it's best to let you decide, Hannah."

I stare up at her, feeling a little off-guard all of a sudden. This… I see what this is. She's making herself into an ally against my mom, since she knows I don't like her. Classic isolation technique—pull me apart from the woman that can protect me and I won't… I won't… what? Tell on her for the zero other red flags she's shown thus far?

Maybe she's just presenting herself as trusting me and not applying pressure so that I'll be more positively inclined to her and willingly choose to have another session, which will make me more engaged compared to a session I'm being forced to attend. Which is a perfectly normal and non-evil reason. Still, though…

"...You know more about Pokémon than you do about me," I mutter. "I wasted pretty much the whole session."

She chuckles conspiratorially.

"Hannah, if you want to spend ninety minutes a week coming down here to do nothing but talk about video games on your mother's dime, I certainly won't be the one to spill the beans to her."

I fidget, hating how tempting that offer truly is.

"...Okay," I agree. "Next week, then."

"Next week," she confirms. "And… here. Just in case there's anything you need to speak with me about, in an emergency or otherwise."

She hands me her business card, which I accept more or less automatically. Geez, this feels weird. Business cards are so professional.

"Use it or don't use it; I don't need your number. We can handle the scheduling in person."

"Right," I say numbly. "Yeah, okay."

Then we walk out to see my mom and what's left of my good mood vanishes. I shrink in on myself, not paying any attention to the brief conversation that occurs between her and Dr. Carson.

Your family has failed you.

My mother and I spend the entire trip home in silence, something that I think I probably have Dr. Carson to thank for. I get out of the car without a word, immediately retreating upstairs, locking myself in my room, and stripping down to stretch a little before getting my work uniform on. Because of course I work on a Saturday this week. I can't wear a comfy sweater to work, so instead I have to settle on a long-sleeved undershirt to tuck into my gloves. My wrists are officially alien, my entire hands no longer having skin and my joints now creepy, black flesh and sinew underneath the white armor. It's fine, though. Discovery is inevitable, I'm just holding out as long as I can.

"Is it alright if I drive myself to work?" I ask when I head back downstairs. "Or do you have more errands to run?"

"You're a little early, aren't you?" my mom asks.

"I'm going to get lunch."

She nods slowly.

"...Take your dad's car."

I nod back, get in the car, and get the heck out of there. What should I have for lunch, I wonder? Pizza? Can I even eat pizza? Screw it, why not. I go buy a cheap pizza and scarf it all down in one sitting. It's… okay. As usual, everything is skewed now; the cheese and pepperoni taste a lot better, the sauce and crust tastes a lot worse. Butter and grease still taste good, though, so with that soaking into the crust the overall experience isn't too bad. Maybe I'd like an alfredo or parmesan garlic sauce more than tomato, since I can still have cheese? Something to try next time.

I drive into my job's parking lot, secure my hair in a ponytail, and put on my work hat. Ready to go, I guess. With a deep breath, I get out of the car and get my work day started. I'm supposed to practice managing people now, right? Telling them what to do and stuff? I guess it's something to occupy my thoughts. Today is a front-of-house day, which means I'll probably have plenty of opportunities to ask my fellow register worker to get the heck off her phone and go clean something… though it really would be more efficient if I cleaned everything myself.

It's a slow day, as most Saturday afternoons are. Even the lunch rush is calm, and once it's over there's even less to do. I have to catch myself from yawning since I'd end up swallowing my own mask and exposing my teeth to everyone if I stretch my jaw too much. What a pain.

I'm surreptitiously Refreshing some particularly hard-to-get gunk directly off the counter and onto my cleaning towel when I hear the door ring with the promise of an incoming customer. We are completely empty, so the two kitchen people are just sort of chatting with each other while I tidy up. Well, they'll have work in a second. I turn around and greet a kid, maybe fifteen or sixteen, wearing a big hoodie and—to my absolute delight—an actual facemask. Thank you! Someone who… wait a minute, this guy looks familiar.

He pulls out a knife.

"G-give me the money in the register," he stutters.

I blink. He blinks, seeming to recognize me after a moment. This is the same guy that robbed Autumn and I in that alleyway! We stare at each other, the conversation in the kitchen behind me going dead silent.

"...Are you fucking serious?" I ask both the robber and the world in general.

"I-I mean it!" he snaps, brandishing the blade threateningly, as if I'm supposed to be afraid of it. As if I would bleed a single fucking drop, even if he managed to stab me through the heart. Fuck this. I'm not putting up with this shit today. I snap my hand forwards and grab his wrist.

"Do you, now," I challenge.

I effortlessly twist his arm down and away from my body, stepping around the counter to get right up in his face. Goddess, I want to bite his fucking throat out.

"You know, in some respects, you actually caught me on a good day, last time," I hiss at him, too quietly for anyone else to hear. "I am not having a good day today."

His whole body stiffens in terror, and then out of the corner of my eye I see a flicker of light. I glance down to his other hand, his free hand, where licks of flame have just started dancing above his palm.

Oh, you've gotta be kidding me.

A quick check with my spatial sense confirms that the counter blocks the view of the fire from anyone other than me. I reach my hand over his and cast Refresh, pulling the oxygen from the flames into my lungs, winking them out. The heat the robber is generating goes unaffected, but I don't care as long as it's unseen. He watches me put his flames out, and that's what matters.

"None of that," I warn him. "Behave and I won't hurt you. We need to talk."

He gulps in terror, nodding once. Good. I yank him towards the side hall to the bathroom, turning back to my coworkers as I do so.

"Tell the boss I'm taking my ten!" I snap at them, dragging the helpless robber along, the kitchen workers left in silent shock behind us.