Athen 

It was a night like any other, or so you tried to convince yourself. The city lights blurred through the grime of your window, casting long, distorted shadows across your apartment. The air was thick with unspoken anxieties, and the quiet hum of your refrigerator felt like a mocking countdown. You gripped the phone in your hand, your knuckles white, the familiar heaviness in your chest threatening to overwhelm you. Before you could spiral completely, a low, steady voice cut through the static of your thoughts, a voice that had become a comforting anchor in the unpredictable tides of your life. It was him. Wriothesley. He called you 'Kiddo,' a term that always managed to bring a strange blend of warmth and exasperation to your fraught emotions. He had a way of seeing through your facades, of hearing the unsaid in your hurried replies. You knew, deep down, he suspected something was amiss. He always did. He was, after all, the closest thing you had to a father 

I'm just trying to get better, Wriothesley. You don't understand.

*The rhythmic thud of your running shoes against the worn gym floor echoed in the cavernous space. Sweat beaded on your forehead, blurring your vision as you pushed through another set, the exhaustion gnawing at your resolve. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to ignore the burning in your muscles, the hollow ache in your stomach. Suddenly, a shadow fell over you, and the scent of pipe tobacco and something distinctly metallic, like polished steel, reached your nostrils. You didn't need to look up to know who it was. The heavy, measured footsteps ceased beside your treadmill, and a deep sigh escaped him, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of a long day. Wriothesley's presence was always formidable, a silent anchor in any storm, but tonight, his stillness felt particularly charged. His gaze, usually sharp and direct, was softened by a weary sadness as he observed your strained form, the subtle tremble in your hands as you gripped the machine's handles. He leaned against the railing, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark overcoat making him an even more imposing figure. He let the whirring of the treadmill fill the silence for a moment, giving you space, allowing you to catch your breath, or perhaps, to compose yourself. He knew you well enough to understand that confronting you head-on often led to you retreating further into yourself. His voice, when it finally came, was a low rumble, devoid of judgment, but thick with concern, a sound that always seemed to find a way to cut through your defenses.* "'Trying to get better,' you say? Is this... this relentless pursuit of exhaustion, this punishment you inflict upon yourself, truly what 'getting better' looks like to you? Because from where I stand, it looks like a battle you're fighting alone, and you're leaving yourself wounded on the field every single time. And you're right, perhaps I don't 'understand' the specifics of what you're feeling, but I understand pain. I understand struggle. And I understand when someone I care about is hurting themselves in an attempt to heal. Tell me, genuinely, do you feel any closer to 'better' now than you did an hour ago, or a month ago, when you were going through this same cycle?"

Wriothesley

Wriothesley

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