Page 10 of Hunter

She opens a folder, scans the top page, then looks up at me without blinking.

“After reviewing the incident report from the five-alarm in the East Village, along with your recent psychiatric hold and the documented history of trauma following the death of your partner six months ago, I’m issuing a court order. You will attend bi-weekly sessions at the New Light Support Group for trauma survivors. This is mandatory. You will participate meaningfully. You will not miss a single session. Failure to comply will result in contempt of court and possible revocation of your ability to return to active duty with the FDNY after your physical therapy is finished. Do you understand?”

I clench my jaw so hard something pops. The rage is back, thick and choking. “You’re ordering me to go sit in a fucking feelings circle like that’s going to fix anything?”

Judge Tallman doesn’t match my energy. “I’m ordering you to get help, Mr. Hale, before you kill yourself or someone else. The department has already recommended this. Consider it a lifeline, not a punishment.”

I laugh once. “A lifeline. Right. Because talking about how I left my partner to burn while I crawled out is really going to make everything better.”

She slides the signed order across the desk. “Sessions begin tomorrow evening at the New Light community room on 28th Street. First violation and we’ll be back here under much less pleasant circumstances. You’re dismissed.”

“Do you know how far that place is from my apartment?”

“It is a good place for trauma survivors to heal.”

“How long do I have to do this bullshit?”

She sighs. “Until you stop calling it bullshit.”

Ramirez is waiting outside the door. He doesn’t say “I’m sorry” or any of that bullshit. Just walks me out to the curb and hands me a MetroCard like I’m a civilian now.

“Try not to fuck this up, Hale,” he mutters before he turns away.

I stand on the sidewalk for a long minute, the court order crumpled in my fist, shoulder throbbing, wrists still wrapped in gauze under my sleeves. The city noise presses in—horns, sirens, people laughing like the world isn’t on fire.

I hate this fucking city.

The subway ride home is a blur of too-bright lights and too-loud voices. Every jolt of the train sends fresh fire through my shoulder and down my arm. By the time I climb the stairs to my apartment in Astoria, I’m sweating through my shirt and my legs feel like they belong to someone else.

The second I push the door open, the smell hits me like a backdraft.

Vomit. Stale tequila. The whole place reeks of the night I hit rock bottom. The crusty patch on the carpet where I passed out is still there, dried into a dark, ugly stain. The empty bottle lies on its side under the futon like it’s mocking me. A couple of flies buzz lazily around the mess.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

I should leave it. Let it rot. Let the whole fucking apartment decay around me the same way I’m decaying inside. But something stubborn and hateful kicks in—the same part of me that kept me crawling out of that burning house when I should’ve stayed with Robby.

I force myself to move.

Every bend, every stretch of my arm to grab paper towels and cleaner sends white-hot pain ripping through my shoulder and down into the fresh burns on my upper arm. The gauze pulls and sticks. Sweat stings my eyes. I scrub on my knees until my wrists scream under the bandages and the carpet is raw and damp. The smell only gets worse before it gets better, thick and sour, crawling down my throat until I’m gagging again.

When the worst of it is gone and the bottle is in the trash, I drag myself to the bathroom and flip on the light.

The mirror doesn’t lie.

I look like shit.

Dark hair, messy and too long, sticks to my forehead with sweat. My hazel eyes are bloodshot. Three days of dark stubble shadows my jaw—patchy in places where it never grows well, heavier along the chin where I usually keep it clean for the job. I look older than thirty-two. Tired. Mean. The kind of man people cross the street to avoid.

I peel the gauze off my shoulder and upper arm slowly, hissing through my teeth as the tape rips away.

The burns stare back at me.

Raw, angry red flesh mixed with patches of shiny, puckered scar tissue from six months ago. The new damage overlays the old like someone tried to rewrite the map of my failure. Blisters have popped in places, leaving wet, weeping spots that glisten under the cheap bathroom light. The edges are already starting to scab, ugly and uneven. It looks exactly like what it is—skin that got too close to the fire again and paid for it.

After I wash my hands, I trace one finger along the worst patch and immediately regret it. The pain flares bright and clean.

My reflection stares back with hollow eyes. The stubble makes me look like the kind of guy who doesn’t give a shit anymore. Maybe I don’t. The dark circles underneath make the hazel look almost brown in this light, like dead leaves. I used to think Robby liked my eyes—said they reminded him of the woods we grew up near and the freedom we had as kids. Now they just look empty.