Berz1337 snorted. “Names feel like contracts.”
Outside, a tram bell clanged. The hellhound’s chest rose and fell; it did not move.
“Vulnerability,” Berz1337 said. “From expectation. From letting someone see how badly I’m falling apart.” Their jaw clenched. “But it’s lonely. He’s very good at being a fortress.” hellhound therapy session berz1337 new
Dr. Marin wrote, then set the pen down. “When he protects you by pushing others away, what does that protect you from?”
They sat like that for a long, practical minute. The hellhound’s breathing slowed. Berz1337’s hands stopped trembling. Berz1337 snorted
“Language,” Berz1337 said. “The jokes I use as armor, the sharp edges. If I lose those, maybe I lose the only person who knows how to survive inside me. Maybe I become… soft. And I don’t know who gets to be soft.”
Berz1337 (they preferred the handle because it felt less like a name and more like armor) sat with elbows on knees, shoulders tight. Beside them, folded in a way that somehow made room for both menace and melancholy, was a hellhound: coal-black fur that absorbed the light, eyes like molten brass, and a single scar running from snout to shoulder that seemed to map an entire life. The dog’s breath came out in warm puffs, ash-scented, as if it had been exhaling embers for years. “Vulnerability,” Berz1337 said
Dr. Marin’s voice stayed steady. “What does being unrecognizable look like? What would you lose?”