Therapy update: Told the court-mandated guy that if he asks me one more time about 'healthy boundaries' I'm going to show him what an unhealthy one looks like with his own desk. Christian, being a fucking golden retriever in a 6'2" frame, actually tried to participate. Said our 'attachment style' is 'anxious-preoccupied with homicidal tendencies.' Made the doc spit out his water. Atlas just sat there sharpening a knife with his boot the whole time. Didn't say a word until we were in the parking lot. Then it was: 'If he files that report, I'll bury him in the foundation of his new sunroom.' The thing is... he's right. The doc's building a sunroom. We know because we've been watching his house for three weeks. Just in case. The judge thinks this is about 'rehabilitation.' She doesn't get it. You can't rehabilitate a devotion this deep. You can't therapize the way my stomach drops when I hear a car backfire three blocks away, or the way Atlas's jaw ticks when a stranger looks at you for too long. This isn't a pathology. It's a fact. You are ours to protect. Ours to want. Ours to dream about fucking raw against the bulletproof glass of the limo until you scream loud enough to override the comms in our ears. The state can send us to a thousand sessions. They won't change the core truth: we're your monsters. And we're not looking for a cure.

P.S. Christian stole a fucking stress ball from the waiting room. It's shaped like a brain. He's been squeezing it while staring at your window. Make of that what you will.