Page 3 of Steel and Ice

My body obviously had knowledge I hadn’t caught up to yet.

Colt didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. But his eyes weren’t curious. They were violent. Heavy with judgment; I could feel it. Burning with heat Colt hadn’t decided whether to unleash or bury in his subconscious.

As if he were holding back a dark storm, and I’d foolishly stood directly in its path. Not merely a look; a warning.

He advanced.

One step toward me, then another. Each footfall deliberate.

Predatory.

Every muscle inside me locked when Colt’s shadow cut across the floor.

He saw; I knew he saw.

Instinct screamed at me to retreat but I had no angle. Only the counter behind me and Colt in front, filling the space between us. My pen shook even as I willed it to stop, believing if I remained still, I’d be untouchable.

I wanted to move, but I couldn’t because my feet had fused to the floor.

My pulse hammered, my ears rang. Too loud. I silently prayed Colt couldn’t hear it. My hands felt clammy against the counter as my body braced for impact, so tense it hurt.

The faucet drip kept the beat for his movements.

He stopped short of me, so close I could smell the salt of dried sweat. Heat radiated off his skin in waves. If I’d learned anything at all during my years as a therapist, in rooms like this, control wasn’t calm.

It was containment.

I attempted to sound confident. “Why ask, Colt? Are you after a lie or a confession?”

“Neither,” Colt growled. “If you’re obsessed with that clip… if you’re stuck on it, you’re not objective. And I need your signature clean.”

“Then don’t make clean my full-time job,” I said, and immediately regretted it.

His eyes stayed on mine as he took another inch. Fury burned inside them. Not loud rage, but pressure. I couldn’t tell if his fury was contained. Or waiting. The bars were there, but they shook.

The cage rattled.

Colt tilted his head. Not with curiosity or confusion. He assessed me, as if to decide if I was a threat… or something softer.

Something breakable.

Something he could ruin if he wanted to.

And the worst part?

Part of me wanted him to.

Exactly seven minutes remained until five o’clock, but I was ready to call it an early day and leave the center. As I headed to my office to grab my belongings, I tried not to think about my interaction with Colt, but it owned my mind from the moment it happened.

The corridor smelled of disinfectant as usual. Lights above me hummed but stayed firmly lit. Oddly comforting in a place like an anger management center.

I lifted my bag and reached for the door, but Travis slid out of a blind corner as if the building had dispensed him.

He set his palm on the doorframe and turned his shoulder which narrowed the opening. Not quite a strike, but certainly possession.

Group had ended hours ago, so I had no idea where Travis had come from. We hadn’t spoken one-on-one yet, but his file had.

Last week he’d shouted in another participant’s face so hard the room went still. We had to pause group, and I had to log it as a boundary violation. Which meant a safety-plan hold went on Travis’s chart. A hold that couldn’t be lifted without a supervisor, a witness, and a pen that didn’t shake.

I attempted to pretend as if I didn’t see him and continued to walk, but he shifted and fully blocked the door. When I tried to slide past him, his fingers pinched my bag strap for a beat then let go.

Contact so brief it could pretend to be nothing at all. But it wasn’t nothing. It was calculated.

“Take the hold off,” he said.

He watched my hands, not my face. Like a trained fighter waiting to see if I’d strike back.

The doorframe creaked under his weight as he leaned against it. I steadied myself and kept my voice even.

“The hold went on after last week’s incident,” I said. “You shouted in a participant’s face, which is not allowed.”

I decided to add a hint of encouragement to keep things neutral. “And if you stick with the program, Travis, you’ll learn new techniques to cope with your anger?—”

“It’s just a note,” he said, interrupting. “It’s not scripture. Fix it.”

“I’ll add what’s factual before five,” I said, as I realized I had only a few minutes remaining before Travis’s file would automatically export to his parole officer.

“That’s all I can do,” I added. “Status changes require a supervisor.”

He shook his head. “I have to meet my PO in the morning, and you know what that means, counselor.”

“I do,” I said, “but I’m still not lifting a hold under pressure.”

His face froze as if he was not accustomed to hearing the word no. Especially not from someone half his size.

Travis didn’t touch me again. Didn’t move, either. I widened the space by a few inches and took it. Head up, ordinary pace. He stayed framed in metal as if he were a problem that could be bordered and contained. I knew better.

I made my way—as calmly as possible—down the hallway toward my office, glancing back once to make sure Travis hadn’t followed me.

At my terminal, the banner glared yellow: Export to probation at 17:00. Late edits flagged.

I kept the addendum clean and orderly. Verbal escalation last week, group paused. De-escalated and exited with no threats or contact observed in group session. I reviewed it once before I clicked submit.

Then I opened a new note for today’s corridor incident. Physical obstruction at exit, brief grasp of personal effect. Experienced as coercive. Supervisor informed and pinged.

The banner flipped from yellow to gray.

Export pending… export complete at 17:00.

Down the hall, the elevator chimed once, bright as a verdict.

My hands remained steady on the desk while the office, and everything else around me, moved. Facing the doors, I didn’t call for help.

I stood to meet whatever stepped out.