Thorne hadn't spoken in two days.Not out of some edgy curse or brooding cool-guy act. Nah—he was just legitimately depressed. Again. And this time it hit different.
His last Epitaph—"Should've Been Me"—was gone.
Burned out. Spent. Shattered in that sewer fight with Mahito, and with it went the anchor to one of the heaviest chunks of grief he'd ever forged. Losing it was like someone pried open his ribcage and ran off with a lung.
So now, he sat on the roof, hood up, hoodie chewed at the sleeve, staring out over the city like a Discount Batman having an existential crisis during lunch break.
"Hey," Juno said behind him. "We're holding an anti-therapy circle. Get down here."
"Not interested."
"Too bad. You don't get a vote."
The living room had been transformed into what could only be described as a cursed intervention meets cursed game show. Flint stood at the center wearing a lab coat labeled "Emotionally Hostile." Spillglass held a whiteboard with the words "THORNE'S PSYCHIC FAILURES" in glitter paint. Junpei was assigned as "Trauma DJ," armed with a Bluetooth speaker and a playlist titled "Pain But Make It Funky."
Thorne looked around, dead-eyed. "You're kidding me."
"Nope," Flint said. "You lost an Epitaph, and instead of healing, you're stewing. That's not how we do it here."
"What, you gonna make me talk about it?"
"Hell no," Juno said. "This ain't therapy. It's anti-therapy. We make it worse until you laugh or snap."
Spillglass rang a cursed bell. "Round one: Blame Throwing."
Flint immediately stepped forward. "I blame Thorne for being emotionally constipated."
"I blame Junpei," Juno said.
"Why me?!"
"You just look like you cause sad backstories."
Spillglass raised a finger. "I blame my mother but also Thorne."
Thorne just sat there, eyes unfocused. "I could walk out of this."
"You won't," Flint said. "Because you're secretly desperate for validation and we all know it."
Round two: Flashback Roast.
Juno projected footage from Thorne's past missions on the wall like it was a cursed home movie. One clip showed him getting knocked out by a second-grade curse shaped like a goose.
"WHY DID YOU NOT DODGE THE GOOSE, THORNE?"
"It had human teeth," he muttered.
Junpei chimed in. "He cried after that mission, didn't he?"
Spillglass nodded solemnly. "Over tea. Then fell asleep on a rake."
Round three: Emotional Jenga.Each block had a repressed memory written on it. If you pulled one, you had to yell the memory and eat a piece of ghost pepper candy.
Thorne refused to play.
So they made him referee. Which only made it worse because he had to listen to everyone else's trauma yelled at max volume.
"I miss my dad!""I once kissed a curse on a dare!""I can't look at mirrors without hearing her scream!"
Junpei pulled a block and yelled, "I never learned to ride a bike!"
They stared at him.
"…I thought we were being vulnerable?"
Finally, they got him.
Spillglass stood up, holding the original Epitaph shard Thorne had forged—cracked, dull, inert.
"Claire was the first person who saw you," he said, gentle for once. "You think losing this means losing her again."
Thorne's jaw tensed.
"But you're wrong," Spillglass continued. "You didn't lose her. You burned the grief, yeah. That means it's part of you now. Not a weapon. Just... you."
The room went quiet. For once, no one made a joke. Not even Flint.
Junpei, soft-voiced: "We don't stay broken, Thorne. We just get weird about it."
Thorne looked up.
And snorted.
Then laughed. Just once. Harsh, dry, but real.
"I hate all of you."
"Finally," Juno said. "Anti-therapy successful."
Flint raised a lighter and set the whiteboard on fire. "We did it, boys. He's emotionally unstable but functional."
Thorne stood, rolling his eyes. "I'm going back to bed."
"You're cooking breakfast first."
"Not a chance."
Outside, in a distant alley, two black-robed sorcerers watched the dorm from afar. Hidden under cursed veils, they whispered.
"They're loud," one murmured. "Unpredictable."
The other, older, cracked a half-smile. "They'll burn bright. Then we snuff 'em."
Then they vanished into the night.