After the little stunt he pulled, saying he would burn down the world. Who knew that they would take it seriously. And their solution to that was— Therapy.
Rain tapped softly against the tall, tinted windows of the room. It was artificial created to calm the mind.
It wasn't sterile like the infirmary. It wasn't gold-lined like the Class buildings. It wasn't a dungeon, either.
It was… quiet.
Muted greens, soft greys. Cushions that didn't feel like they were hiding knives. A strange rectangular device ticked softly on the wall. The air was cool and dry—mercifully scentless.
Zephyr sat on a wide couch, leaning forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled just in front of his face. His scythe wasn't in the room. It hadn't been allowed.
Neither had his other weapons.
He wore a simple black shirt and loose slacks. The clothes felt like paper on his skin, not heavy enough to carry the weight in his chest.
