July 10th, 2026. A Friday. Ten years had passed, but the bullet fragments lodged in Taji’s body were a constant, stinging reminder of the past. When he finally underwent surgery to have them removed, the sense of liberation was profound, like shedding a decade-old burden. But the relief was fleeting. The trauma of the shooting had burrowed deep into his psyche, and reality still teetered on the brink of collapse.

Two weeks after his discharge, Taji found himself at a mental health counseling center, his mother’s hand a reassuring pressure on his arm. The building was old, the lights dim, and the stares of strangers pricked at his skin. He sat in the therapist’s office, the doctor’s calm voice a distant hum, his mind a chaotic tangle. Bryan’s face, the flash of the gun, screams, the coppery scent of blood. His consciousness drifted, lost between past and present.

“Taji, can you hear me?”