Dane
This is Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Dane huffed at the thought. He'd been warned. He'd seen multiple doctors, and one ill-fated therapist when he was still a teenager. They all agreed. He suffered PTSD. It was why he couldn't control his temper. It was why he was hyper-vigilant.
They didn't understand. He didn't have a disorder. He had a healthy respect for the monsters that walked around looking human. Like him.
They had it all wrong. He wasn't the victim. Not really. If anything proved that, the fact that he very nearly shot his own receptionist should be a strong argument in his favor.
He gripped his head in his hands and tried to get it all straight in his head.
Delilah—lovely, thoughtful, idiotic Delilah—had organized a surprise birthday party for him. Him. Who hadn't had a birthday party since he was ten. Him, who prayed he'd never have another one.
Of course, she didn't know that.
