The golden door creaked open with the exhausted sigh of a librarian who's seen too much.
Inside: couches. Dozens of them. Soft. Fluffy. One of them hummed show tunes.
A glowing sign floated overhead:
"Welcome to the Plot-Approved Emotional Recovery Room™. Please Take a Number."
Kevin took number 3. Greg somehow had 7. Clucksworth bit his and claimed 1.
> "Wait, who's the therapist?" Lyria asked.
The walls shifted. And there, seated behind an oak desk that smelled like burnt feelings and cinnamon tea, was…
A Giant Golden Platypus in Glasses.
> "I am Dr. Floffle," it said in a soothing voice. "Licensed Emotional Reconstructor, Plot Therapist, and Snack Distributor."
It gestured to a bowl of emotionally validating pretzels.
> "Please. Speak your traumas."
Arc floated forward.
> "I'm a sword. Sometimes I wish I were a spork. For variety."
Grubnuk stood.
> "I once loved a soup that didn't love me back."
Greg cried for six minutes about a dream he had where ducks judged him.
Lyria tried to explain the horror of singing against her will and accidentally caused the room to sprout sunflowers.
Kevin just honked mournfully into a pillow.
Me? I sat. Stared at the therapy platypus.
> "I think I'm losing control of the story."
Floffle nodded wisely.
> "Good. That means you're finally in the story."
Then it handed me a tiny plush of myself labeled "Emotional Support Protagonist."
We left the room thirty minutes later. Somewhat healed. Somewhat confused. One step closer to whatever chaos waited next.
And the golden door closed behind us.
A new sign appeared:
"NEXT ROOM: Existential Crisis Hallway. Mind your footing."
> "Of course it is," I muttered.
---
End of Chapter 31 (Feelings processed. Pretzels consumed. Onward to more suffering.)