The therapy office smells like pine disinfectant and something herbal - lavender maybe. Dr. Lehmann sits across from me, her notepad balanced on her knee, waiting. The clock ticks too loudly on the wall.

"You're unusually quiet today, Ethan," she says. Not a question.

I shift in the chair, the fabric squeaking against my jeans. Outside the window, rain streaks down the glass, blurring the Portland skyline. Perfect cover for a man who wants to disappear behind his own walls.

"Just thinking," I say, the words rough. Not a lie. I've been thinking a lot since Hardison and Parker's midnight visit - the way Parker had clung to me like I might disappear, how Hardison's voice had cracked when he said he missed me. The jazz record I left on their doorstep as a message - Red light. Stop. But they hadn't stopped.

Dr. Lehmann tilts her head slightly. "About your anger?" She knows how to ask questions that leave no room for deflection.

I could play the role - rant about the "black guy who stole my turkey" like in my cover story. But something in her gaze makes me hesitate. The real anger is closer to the surface these days - not the performative rage of Ethan Scott, but the cold, coiled fury I've carried since Afghanistan. Since before that.

"Anger's just... there," I say finally. "Like it's always been there." And suddenly I'm thinking about Wes, about the blood on my hands, about the things I've done that can never be undone.

A knock at the door interrupts us. Huber sticks his head in, smirking like he owns the place. "Group's starting, Doc. They sent me to collect the angry patients." His eyes slide to me, assessing, and I see the recognition - he thinks we're the same, two alpha males slumming it in therapy.

Dr. Lehmann checks her watch. "We'll pick this up tomorrow, Ethan."

As I stand to follow Huber out, her voice stops me. "And Ethan? Whatever you're really angry about? It's okay to actually feel it. Sometimes that's the first step to controlling it."

Huber claps me on the back as we walk down the hall, too hard, the way men do when they're trying to establish dominance. "You and me, we're not like these other guys," he says. "We don't belong here." He's right about one thing - I don't belong here. But not for the reasons he thinks.

In the group room, Sophie - Dr. Mehta - sits at the head of the circle, her bangles glinting. When her eyes meet mine, there's a flicker of concern. She sees it too - the real anger breaking through the performance. And when Huber takes the seat next to me, already complaining about "political correctness" and "coddling," I realize this mission is about more than just taking down a racist bastard. It's about whether I can confront the anger inside me without letting it destroy everything I've built.

Sophie smiles, too bright, too practiced. "Shall we begin? Today we're going to talk about triggers. What makes you lose control?"

All eyes turn to us. Huber smirks, ready to perform his contrition. I feel the weight of everyone's gaze - Sophie watching for cues, Huber looking for validation, the others genuine in their need to understand themselves.

And somewhere beyond these walls, Hardison and Parker are waiting. Watching. Hoping I don't push them away forever.