Dr. Shaw’s office was bathed in a warm, golden glow, the morning light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows and casting soft, intricate patterns across the minimalist decor. The place had that kind of effortless elegance you’d expect from someone with a keen eye for design—calm, inviting, yet sophisticated. Vines of pothos hung languidly from the bookcases behind her desk, while a massive monstera by the window stood like a leafy sentinel, its broad, glossy leaves soaking up the sunlight. A few snake plants were scattered around the room, adding to the feeling of a tranquil oasis suspended above the chaos of the city below.

I sank into one of the plush leather armchairs, letting its cushions envelop me. Across from me, Dr. Shaw sat with her legs crossed, clipboard resting lightly on her knee. The sunlight caught her glasses just right, a faint glimmer dancing off the lenses as she offered me one of her trademark smiles—warm, inviting, but with that sharp, perceptive edge that told me I wasn’t getting off easy.

“So, Dave,” she began, her voice soft yet direct, “before we get into anything else, did you manage to do any journaling?”

I shifted in my seat, glancing away. Yeah, about that… I trailed off, rubbing the back of my neck, a reflexive gesture I fell back on whenever I knew I was about to disappoint someone.

Dr. Shaw arched an eyebrow, not unkindly, but with just enough of a nudge to say, Go on.

“I, uh, might’ve gotten a little sidetracked,” I admitted, finally meeting her gaze. “I mean, I did some journaling. If you count a few stray thoughts jotted down on random sticky notes between everything else as, you know, actual entries.”

Her smile widened slightly, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “Sticky notes, huh? Well, I suppose that’s better than nothing.” She adjusted her glasses, the sunlight casting a brief flare across them. “So, what kind of thoughts made it onto these sticky notes? Anything worth sharing?”

I shrugged, leaning back. “Just the usual stuff. Complaints about this morning’s traffic, the ridiculous price of coffee these days… and a few comments on how everyone in this city seems to have a death wish when crossing the street.”

“Sounds like a start,” she said, her tone encouraging. “But remember, the point of journaling isn’t just to vent. It’s about capturing your thoughts and feelings as they come, without worrying about whether they make sense or are perfectly organized. It doesn’t have to be polished—it just has to be yours.”

“Right, right,” I nodded, feeling both mildly chastised and oddly relieved that she wasn’t pushing harder. It’s just… I’m not used to focusing on me. Feels weird.

“That’s exactly why it’s important, Dave.” Her gaze softened, and I could feel her words reaching right through the awkwardness. “It’s a small way to start setting boundaries for yourself. To remind yourself that your thoughts and feelings are just as valid as everyone else’s.”

I nodded slowly. “Boundaries,” I repeated, letting out a slow breath. “There’s that word again.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “It’s an important word for you. And I think we’re just starting to scratch the surface.”

Of course, she’d say that, I thought, biting back a sigh. How does she do that? Like she’s got some kind of super empathy radar tuned in to my exact insecurities. The woman could probably sense a buried emotion through a brick wall.

A small, lopsided smile crept onto my face despite myself. “I’ll try to get more than a few sticky notes written down next time. Maybe even find a notebook, if I’m feeling ambitious.”

“I have faith in you,” she said, her smile steady. And for a fleeting moment, I almost believed it myself.

Dr. Shaw shifted gears, her tone becoming more conversational. “Has anything unusual happened since our last session?”

I snorted, rubbing the back of my neck again. “Define unusual. We’re in Zenith City—anything short of a kaiju attack barely registers as a blip these days.”

Dr. Shaw let out a small, amused chuckle, the corners of her mouth quirking up. “Fair enough. Let’s narrow it down, then. Anything that stood out for you personally?”

I took a moment, thinking it over before glancing down at my hands. “Well, Mrs. O’Leary still won’t look me in the eye. Not since the whole ‘giant worm infestation’ debacle a few years back. Can’t say I blame her.”

I caught a flicker of recognition in her eyes, but she stayed quiet, her posture open, patient. She was good at this—letting silence do the heavy lifting, never rushing, never interrupting. Made every word feel like some kind of revelation.

I sighed, a wry grin tugging at my lips. “I mean, it’s been, what, eight years? You’d think she’d get over it. I saved her dog, didn’t I? And her car. But no. One worm the size of a school bus slithers down Ridge Street, and I’m suddenly the neighborhood pariah.”

“Hmm.” She made a quick note on her clipboard, her brow furrowing thoughtfully. “It sounds like you’ve been carrying some frustration about that incident for a while.”

I shrugged. “Not really. I just wish people would stop calling me every time there’s a worm problem, y’know?”

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady and a little too knowing for comfort. “And yet, you always respond. Whether it’s worms, malfunctioning tech, or someone’s cat stuck in a tree.”

“That’s because—” I started, but the words tangled in my throat. I let out a frustrated breath, the familiar twinge of embarrassment prickling at my skin. “I mean, what else am I supposed to do? Just let it all spiral out of control?”

“Ah.” She leaned forward a bit, her gaze locking onto mine. “That’s exactly what I want to talk about today—your tendency to always step in and fix things. It’s admirable, but exhausting, isn’t it?”

Exhausting? I bit back a sarcastic retort. Sure, doc. That’s a nice way to describe being knee-deep in giant worms and creatures from the abyss. But instead, I scoffed lightly. “So, you’re saying I should just let things go?”

“Not exactly.” Her tone was calm, patient—too patient. “But I want you to consider that sometimes, it’s okay to step back. To let people handle their own problems, even if it means watching them struggle a little. You can’t save everyone, Dave, and it’s not healthy to try.”

Her words hung between us, weighty yet somehow freeing. I let out a long breath, feeling some of the tension seep out of my shoulders.

“Yeah,” I muttered, almost to myself. “I guess I get that. It’s just… hard, y’know?”

She nodded, her gaze softening even further. “Of course. But you’re more than just a fixer, Dave. You’re allowed to have your own needs and limits. It’s okay to prioritize yourself once in a while.”

“Prioritize myself, huh?” I raised an eyebrow, aiming for a smirk but probably landing somewhere closer to exhausted disbelief. “Sounds an awful lot like self-care talk to me.”

“Call it whatever you like.” Her smile was small, but genuine. “Just think about it. We can pick up this thread next time.”

I nodded, glancing out at the sunlit river beyond the windows. The view seemed almost mocking after everything we’d just unpacked, but at the same time, it felt like a breath of fresh air—clearer, less muddled. Maybe there was something to this whole boundaries business after all.

“Alright, doc,” I said, standing up. “I’ll give it a shot. No promises, though.”

“Good enough for now.” She stood as well, offering her hand. “See you next week, Dave.”

I gave her a final nod and turned to leave, the tension in my shoulders easing just a little. As the door clicked shut behind me, I realized there was something else too—a small sliver of relief.

Not the full-bodied relief that comes from stopping a disaster or solving a crisis. No, this was smaller, quieter. A lightness I hadn’t felt in a long time. The kind that sneaks up on you when you realize it’s okay to take a break, even just for a moment.

I made my way through the sleek corridors of the building, replaying the session with Dr. Shaw. Her words lingered, a nagging echo in the back of my mind. Boundaries. Letting people solve their own problems. Sounded straightforward enough, but it left a sour taste in my mouth. Even just thinking about it made my shoulders tense up.

Guess it’s not called growing pains for nothing.

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I punched the elevator button and waited, watching the numbers descend. My reflection in the polished metal doors stared back—a tall, slightly disheveled guy with tired eyes and too much baggage he didn’t know how to set down.

When the doors slid open, I stepped inside, glancing back at Dr. Shaw’s office one last time. Maybe, I’d try doing one small thing differently this week. Maybe I’d start saying ‘no’ to some of those late-night calls. Or ignore the itch to dive into every street-side squabble.

Small steps.

“Yeah, baby steps, right?” I muttered under my breath as the elevator doors closed. “One thing at a time.”

The elevator hummed softly, carrying me down to the bustling streets below. As the numbers ticked down, I let my gaze drift over the cityscape outside the glass wall. Zenith City, in all its chaotic glory, sprawled out before me—my home, my battlefield—a place that never really fit, like a puzzle piece hammered into the wrong spot. But it was mine to navigate, whether I liked it or not.

When the elevator doors finally slid open and I stepped into the lobby, I braced myself for that familiar wave of irritation that hit the moment I set foot outside Dr. Shaw’s office. The Steel District always managed to get under my skin. It wasn’t just the cold efficiency of it all or the way people moved like cogs in some massive, perfectly synchronized machine. No, it was the entire atmosphere—the smug, oppressive air of a place that knew exactly how much power it wielded.

Like it owned you the second you crossed into its territory.

Yeah, well, not today, I thought, setting my jaw as I pushed through the glass doors and out onto the street. The crowd outside moved with a single-minded focus that made my teeth itch. Suits and skirts rushed past, eyes glued to their phones or locked straight ahead, every face wearing the same expression of concentration, as if glancing anywhere but their immediate path would cost them their place in line. Nobody saw anyone else here. Nobody even tried.

The air itself felt thick with tension, like a current crackling just beneath the surface. Sharp. Charged. It made my muscles tighten, my fingers twitch with the urge to break something just to remind myself I could. What is it about this place that always grates on me so much?

Because I knew. I’d seen it chew people up and spit them out. Watched them trade away pieces of themselves for a corner office and a chance to rub elbows with the city’s elite. I’d seen it grind people down until they were nothing but hollow shells, barely hanging on.

And I’d seen how easy it was to lose yourself in that grind. To become just another cog, too tired to push back, too numb to care.

I shoved the thoughts aside and took a deep breath, forcing myself to keep my steps steady. Every instinct screamed at me to get out of here, to push through the crowd and bolt—but I wouldn’t give in. Not here. Not when I could feel the eyes of a thousand security drones—and maybe something else—watching, waiting for me to slip up.

Just keep moving. Head down, act normal, I told myself, blending into the flow of people around me. Don’t make a scene.

But it was hard. Every step felt like trudging through molasses. I had to clamp down on the urge to snap at the oblivious people jostling past me, had to bite back the impulse to shove aside the guy who veered a little too close. The district made me feel like I was wearing someone else’s skin, like I didn’t belong, no matter how hard I tried to blend in.

A glance up, and there it was—Kane’s tower in the distance, the massive structure of black glass gleaming like an enormous, polished blade. My stomach tightened, a bitter taste rising in the back of my throat. That building wasn’t just a headquarters. It was a monument to everything that was wrong with this place. A reminder of all the ways the Steel District bent and broke people without so much as a flicker of regret.

Yeah, no thanks. You can keep your corporate dystopia, I thought, tearing my gaze away. Just a few more blocks and I’m free.

Each step closer to the riverfront peeled back another layer of tension I hadn’t even realized I’d been carrying. The towering skyscrapers gave way to shorter buildings, the relentless buzz of traffic and business chatter faded into a softer hum, replaced by the distant murmur of water and rustling leaves. My pulse, which had been hammering like a jackhammer, finally began to ease.

“Almost there,” I muttered under my breath, the archway to the riverfront coming into view. A flicker of relief stirred in my chest, but I didn’t let myself relax just yet. Not until I was fully out of this place’s reach.

Not until I could finally breathe again.

I loosened my tie as I walked, letting the tension drain from my shoulders with every step. The streets softened into smaller storefronts and open-air cafes, the kind of places that drew in people looking to take a break instead of chase some unattainable goal. The murmur of conversation replaced the frantic buzz of transactions, and I could see the faint shimmer of sunlight glinting off the river ahead.

And just like that, the weight of the Steel District seemed to peel away. Gone were the oppressive towers and polished surfaces. Here, the air felt lighter, almost breathable. I wasn’t quite at the riverfront yet, but I could feel the district’s grip loosening. A few more steps, and I’d be free of it completely.

You’d think I’d be used to it by now, I mused, glancing back at the steel and glass monstrosities looming in the distance. But no, every time I passed through, it was the same. A tightness in my chest, like the city itself was coiling around me, daring me to push back.

And maybe that was the problem. I wasn’t afraid of it—no, fear wasn’t really the right word. It was more like… annoyance. Resentment, even. Like the place itself was taunting me, a constant reminder that no matter how much I managed to keep together, it could always push me just a little bit further.

Whatever. I’m out now, I thought, turning my gaze back to the river. A calm breeze rolled off the water, carrying with it the smell of fresh grass and just the faintest hint of something floral. The sort of scent that made you feel like things could be simple, if you let them.

I reached up and ran a hand through my hair, letting out a slow breath. “Almost there,” I repeated, the words quieter now, as if saying them softly would make them more real.

Finally, the archway to the riverfront came into full view—a stone structure covered in ivy, with a small brass plaque gleaming in the sunlight: Meridian River. A few more steps, and I was officially out of the Steel District, leaving behind the cold efficiency and razor-sharp edges for the gentle murmur of the river and the rustling of leaves.

The relief hit like a breath of fresh air, the weight I’d been carrying all morning lifting from my shoulders. I let out a long exhale I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and allowed myself a small smile. Made it.

The calm of the riverfront washed over me, easing the lingering tension like cool water on a sunburn. My pulse slowed, and for the second time today, I felt like I could actually breathe. I leaned against the ivy-covered archway for a moment, soaking in the sights and sounds of the place. Sunlight shimmered off the water, turning the surface into a rippling canvas of gold and blue. Couples strolled hand-in-hand, vendors called out cheerfully from their carts, and a group of kids chased each other across the grass, their laughter ringing out like tiny bells.

Yeah, this was better. So much better.

But then my stomach growled, loud enough to catch the attention of a passing jogger. I grimaced, instinctively reaching into my pocket and feeling the outline of a muffin-filled napkin. Edith’s blueberry muffins—my usual emergency stash for days like this when real meals slipped through the cracks.

My gut clenched at the thought of eating another one. Not that they weren’t delicious—they were practically award-winning—but a guy can only survive on muffins for so long. I needed something different. Something that didn’t remind me of rushed mornings and skipping meals between crises.

The decision came naturally, almost before I’d realized it. I glanced up and found myself walking toward Breathe and Blend, the quirky little smoothie shop nestled between a yoga studio and an art gallery. The smell of freshly blended fruit and the faint, earthy scent of eucalyptus wafted out the door as I pushed it open. It felt like stepping into a wellness-themed cocoon—one that promised more than just a smoothie, but a small, much-needed escape from the city’s grind.

“Hey, Dave! The usual?” Cassie called out from behind the counter, her bright smile as familiar as the morning light.

“Yeah, ‘Morning Fuel’—extra coffee,” I replied, mustering a grin. “I’m all muffin’d out for the day.”

She laughed, tossing the ingredients into the blender with practiced ease. “You sure? Edith’s muffins are pretty hard to beat.”

“Trust me, they’re top-tier. But a guy can only live off muffins for so long,” I quipped, glancing around at a flyer for their latest yoga class. “Besides, your smoothies keep me from turning into a walking blueberry.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” she teased. “Although, maybe you should try one of the classes sometime. It’d be good for the stress.”

“Oh, yeah. Me, in hot yoga?” I shook my head with mock severity. “I’d be the first guy to get kicked out for passing out before the first Namaste.”

She rolled her eyes, flipping on the blender. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“Maybe,” I admitted, leaning against the counter as I watched her pour the dark, frothy concoction into a tall glass. “But I know my limits.”

Do I, though? The thought came unbidden, and my mind drifted back to the conversation with Dr. Shaw. Prioritize myself. Set boundaries.

Cassie placed the smoothie in front of me, condensation beading on the cup. “One ‘Morning Fuel,’ extra coffee. Enjoy, Dave.”

“Thanks.” I took a long sip, letting the flavors settle on my tongue—rich banana, a hint of almond butter, and just enough coffee to give it a kick. I let out a contented sigh and offered her a thumbs-up. “Perfect as always.”

She grinned and turned to the next customer, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I found an empty seat by the window and sank into it, my gaze drifting to the river outside. Sunlight sparkled on the water’s surface, turning it into a field of shimmering golds and silvers. The city’s hum seemed distant here, softened by the gentle lap of water against the stone embankment.

I took another sip, replaying my session with Dr. Shaw in my mind. Why was it so hard to focus on myself? To let other people solve their own messes? My chest tightened as I wrestled with it, the discomfort bubbling up like a stubborn thorn under the skin. What was I afraid would happen if I didn’t step in?

The rational part of my brain knew this was progress—wrestling with these thoughts instead of brushing them aside—but it still felt like treading water against a current. My thoughts scattered as movement outside caught my eye, pulling me out of my head.

A ripple in the river, larger than the others, spreading out from the center and cutting through the calm surface like a knife. I leaned forward, brow furrowing as I tried to make out the shape. It was too big to be a fish and way too smooth to be driftwood. My mind stuttered, trying to piece together what I was seeing. The ripples grew closer, something gliding just beneath the surface with a grace that made my skin prickle.

What the…?