Something something any of the kids having a panic attack and Bruce is on that shit. 
He knows can tell from a mile away.
It might slip under the radar from the others but he knows.
Dick who's eyes are flickering to the side and tugging at his tie in the middle of a gala. Bruce is ready moving his eldest out of the room, and helping him breathe.
Jason in the cave, going at still when Damian dropped his sword Bruce is already clearing the room and catching the fist his second oldest just threw. Doesn't mind the tears soaking his shirt.
Tim eating breakfast surrounded by the family Alfred in a uncharacteristic moment of clumsiness falling catching himself by grabbing the front of Tim's shirt. By the time his mug shattered to the floor Bruce already hearded everyone out and Dick is kneeling at his brothers side exaggerating his own breathing.
Damian sparing in the cave everything going well until Dick catches the side of his back his youngest eyes glazing over Bruce already on his knees and Tim holding the bucket as Damian heaves, both giving gentle reminders that Damian is safe and they have him.
Bruce Wayne who has trained himself to recognize any sign that his children are struggling. That can ignore his own trauma but made sure theirs is treating with the seriousness it deserves. Even if that means dropping everything to remind them to breathe or answering a 3:00 AM phone call to talk them out of a permeant decision.
imagining Jason walking in on Tim having a panic attack, then the moment it's over he takes a deep breath, looks at the clock and goes "well, time for work" as Jason just stares at him in horror
During a panic attack/nightmare, the caretaker rubs their hand evenly up and down the whumpees back/chest in order to set a rhythm for them to time their breaths to.
Considering the origin, Sonic Adventure 2, what I wondered is: "How GUN managed to capture Shadow after he landed on Earth?"
During the game, itr was shown that Shadow, being as fast as Sonic, was able to effortlessy escape from the army. If he had to fight, he had easy victories. And even on ARK, although a good guy, he didn't seem the kind of person you could mess with.
Sorry Abe, you couldn't bully OG Shadow.
Now, in recent time the writers indulged a lot to show the most vulnerable side of Shadow. Personally sometimes exaggerating on it.
Since my guide for Shadow is Maekawa ;) and since I focus a lot on visual, when I see a new information, I always go to cheek SA2 and so on to see if there is something true in how Shadow vulnerability is portrayed or if is something completely new.
The panic attacks seem a welcome show of vulnerability by fandom, but what about Maekawa's Shadow? And how he was captured and sealed so easily by GUN?
In games written by Maekawa my interpretation is that Shadow doesn't deal well with high stress. Sonic manages a lot better.
Until a certain point Shadow appears to be in control. But when he goes past this point he freezes.
In SA2 he is unable to save Maria and to defend himself from GUN.
In Heroes, when he wrongly believe he is a machine, he freezes.
In 06, when Omega tells him he will be betrayed by him and the whole world, he freezes (and if you look closely, he subtlety shakes)
in BK he opens up with Sonic. It should be noted that he does the same by the end of SA2. He doesn't feel well and he tells this to Sonic, no problems. Shadow is supposed to not be always buddy buddy with Sonic, but at the same time he consider Sonic a trustworthy person, a good listener and a safe figure. He doesn't need to compliment Sonic, his action tell us what he thinks about Sonic.
Iizuka, Flynn and Imada all showed heavy indulgence in portraying Shadow's vulnerability (I think Fowler was more balanced).
Their Shadow is far more vocal and susceptible than Maekawa's, spiraling in despair instead of fighting it. Including...
What about panic attacks?
OG Shadow suffers from panic attacks.
Now, there is the part he runs with Maria from GUN army. You can hear fast, heavy breathing and that's Shadow, and you can tell something is off about this.
How is possible a speedster is so winded after a run? He is running in a low speed so Maria can follow him, it should be like a walk for him. To add more, you don't hear Maria's breath. Most likely she's winded but in a reasonable way.
I interpret Shadow's exaggerate breathing as a panic attack more than being winded for the run.
Lets's add that when he is inside the pod, reading to be launched he is frozen, screaming Maria's name and no further reactions.
Is not shown how GUN captured him but he was having a panic attack and was trapped in a claustrophobic pod right after having seen his family destroyed... the least that could have happen was him fainting.
I think when he was found by GUN, he was unconscious. Most likely they would have taken him in some containment cage and brought him to Prison Island.
Now that I'm reading how a panic attack works - and lucky me I'm clueless about this - thinking about how Shadow's flashback are shown, that was definitely a panic attack. Some of the symptoms listed there including the auditory ones are there, plain and simple.
Summary: You help Han through a panic attack while he’s onstage and it turns into something
Warnings: anxiety, panic attack
Word Count: 3.5k
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The stadium is so loud it feels physical.
It presses against your chest in waves. Bass thumping through concrete, thousands of voices colliding into one huge living thing. Light sticks flicker like a galaxy that forgot how to be quiet. The air smells like sweat and perfume and sweet drinks and the faint metallic bite of pyrotechnics.
You’re at the barricade, close enough that you can see the strain under the smiles. Close enough to notice the small things.
Especially him.
Han Jisung is usually controlled onstage. You’ve seen it a hundred times, the way he rides the edge of intensity like it’s part of the choreography. He paces himself. He laughs loud, he performs even louder, and he keeps it all tucked in tight enough that most people never notice the seams.
Tonight, the seams show.
It starts small. Almost invisible.
He’s between lines, shifting his weight, eyes darting across the crowd. Not in the playful way he usually scans for signs and faces. This is sharper. Searching. Hunting. Like he’s looking for an exit that doesn’t exist.
He presses his in-ear deeper, then pulls it out again, then puts it back like he can’t decide what hurts more. The stage lights sweep across him and catch the sheen of sweat on his neck. His smile comes on half a second late, like it’s a mask he had to reach for.
Then you see it. The tell. The exact moment.
His hand lifts toward his chest and stops short, like he’s trying not to make it obvious. He swallows hard. His shoulders rise with a breath that doesn’t finish.
His eyes go wide in that specific way that isn’t surprise. It’s alarm.
Oh.
Oh no.
He turns his head, scanning for one of the members, any of them, and you can tell he’s trying to keep it together while his body starts betraying him. The others are across the stage, clustered around a camera angle, hyping the crowd, laughing, moving like everything is fine.
He’s alone on his side.
You’ve had panic attacks. Not the same. Not his. But you recognize the beginning, that awful tipping point where your body decides you’re in danger even when you’re not.
His breathing goes shallow. His eyes flick down to the floor like he’s trying to anchor himself. He takes a step back, then forward, like he can’t pick a direction.
The noise swells again, a roar that isn’t even aimed at him exactly. It’s just the stadium doing what stadiums do.
It’s too much.
And then you see his face change. Not dramatic. Just… a crack.
You don’t think. You just act.
You cup your hands around your mouth and shout his name as loud as you can.
“Jisung!”
His head snaps toward you.
Your heart stutters because he looks straight at you. Like he can actually see you.
You point to yourself, then to him, then you lift your hand and do the simplest thing you can think of. You take a slow breath in, exaggerated enough to be readable from a distance, and you let it out slowly. Again. Like you’re teaching a kid how to blow out candles.
You mouth the words carefully.
Breathe with me.
His gaze locks.
For a second he doesn’t move. Then his chest rises, shaky.
You do it again, slower.
In.
Out.
He mirrors you, barely. Like his lungs are reluctant.
You put your hand flat over your own chest and tap it twice, a steady rhythm. One, two. One, two. A heartbeat you can lend him from ten feet away.
His shoulders drop by a millimeter.
He blinks hard, eyes glossy, and you can see the war he’s fighting behind them. The part of him that’s terrified to be seen. The part of him that’s more terrified to collapse.
You shake your head, very small.
It’s okay.
You mouth it again.
It’s okay.
He draws another breath, and this time it goes deeper. Not perfect. But deeper.
His hand finally presses to his chest like he’s checking if his heart is still there. He squeezes his eyes shut for half a second and opens them again, still looking at you like you’re the only quiet thing in the room.
You lift two fingers and point to your eyes, then back to him.
I’m here.
He swallows. His lips part. He nods once, almost imperceptible.
Somewhere behind him, a staff member moves closer, probably finally noticing. One of the members glances over, concern flashing across his face, but the moment has already shifted.
Because Han is breathing again.
He takes a step toward the center, forcing his body back into motion. He’s still pale, still shaken, but he’s upright. Functioning. Alive.
Before he turns away, he looks at you one more time and gives you the smallest bow. Barely a dip of his head, but it’s deliberate.
Thank you.
Your eyes sting. You nod back, trying to smile like you aren’t shaking too.
The show continues.
Most people never notice. Or if they do, they forget. They scream. They wave. They cry. They film.
You stay at the barricade, hands still trembling, watching him like a secret you’re keeping for him.
He makes it to the end.
He smiles again later, a little more real. He jokes. He sings. He moves like he’s reclaiming his own body.
But every now and then, when he thinks nobody’s watching, his eyes flick back to your section of the crowd.
Like he’s checking if you’re still there.
After the encore, you go home hoarse and exhausted and emotionally wrung out.
You tell yourself it was nothing. That you did what any decent person would do. That he’ll never know who you are, not really. That it’ll be one of those moments you keep folded in your chest forever.
Then your phone buzzes the next morning.
A notification.
A post.
It’s from Stray Kids’s official account, and it’s a clip from the concert. A highlight reel. Fans in the comments screaming, posting fancams, tagging each other.
You scroll, curious.
And then you freeze because one of the captions on his personal update later that day is different.
Not promotional.
Not silly.
It’s a simple message.
Last night someone helped me when I was having a hard moment.
I didn’t get to thank you properly.
If you see this, I really want to say thank you.
Your stomach flips.
He keeps posting little things like that over the next week, not directly, not in a way management could scold him for, but it’s obvious if you know what you’re looking at.
A lyric about breathing.
A picture of the stage with a caption about grounding yourself.
A short voice message about how loud crowds can feel and how grateful he is for people who look out for each other.
Fans go feral.
You watch it all from behind your screen, heart pounding with each update.
You don’t comment. You don’t post. You’re not trying to become a story.
But the thing is, he becomes one anyway.
Because he starts looking.
You can tell from the way he talks about it, from the little hints that slip through. He says he’s watched concert footage back. He says he saw someone at the barricade doing something that helped him focus. He says he remembers the way you looked at him, not like a fan trying to take, but like a person trying to give him something steady.
He says he wants to find you so he can thank you.
And then he says it again.
Until it stops being casual and starts being, quietly, obsessive.
You see it in the way his members tease him on a live, laughing, calling him dramatic, and he gets flustered and defensive.
“It’s not like that,” he insists, cheeks pink. “I just. I want to say thank you.”
Someone off camera laughs. “Hyung, you’ve watched that part like fifty times.”
He groans. “Shut up.”
And then his eyes soften a little, like he can’t help it.
“I just,” he murmurs, “I felt really alone for a second. And then I didn’t.”
It hits you so hard you have to set your phone down.
You sit on your bed and stare at your hands, thinking about the way his eyes had locked on yours across the chaos.
He remembers.
He really remembers.
Two weeks after the concert, you’re at work when your coworker shoves her phone in your face.
“Isn’t this you?” she demands.
You glance at the screen and your heart drops into your shoes.
It’s a fan edit. Zoomed in. Grainy. Taken from someone’s angle behind you at the barricade. It shows the side of your face, your hands cupped around your mouth, the moment you breathe slow and he mirrors you.
The caption is something like: THE GIRL WHO SAVED HIM.
Comments are exploding.
You feel your throat close.
“That’s not me,” you lie automatically, but your coworker knows your face too well to fall for it.
She squints at you. “It’s literally you.”
You grab the phone and stare at the video again, pulse roaring.
It’s not super clear. Not enough for strangers to dox you easily. But it’s enough that if he sees it…
He’s going to know.
Your hands go numb.
You click away from the comments and hand the phone back like it burned you.
“Don’t share that,” you say too fast. “Please.”
Your coworker’s expression shifts. “Oh. Oh, you’re serious.”
You nod, swallowing. “I didn’t do it to be… that. I just didn’t want him to have a panic attack onstage.”
She studies you for a second, then nods. “Okay. I won’t. But… wow.”
You don’t feel wow. You feel dread.
Because later that night, there’s a new post.
It’s not long. Just a photo of the stage lights and a caption.
I found the video.
Your chest tightens so hard you can barely breathe.
Then another message follows right after.
If this is you, and you’re comfortable, can you please message the email in the bio.
I promise I’m not trying to make your life hard.
I just want to say thank you properly.
You stare at it until your eyes burn.
You could ignore it. Let it fade. Let him keep you as a faceless kindness.
But he wrote promise.
And he sounds like he means it.
You sit at your kitchen table with your laptop open, fingers hovering above the keys, heart hammering like it’s trying to warn you away from something dangerous.
You type.
Hi. I think that was me.
I don’t want attention or anything like that.
I just… I’m glad you’re okay.
You stare at the message for a full minute before you hit send.
Then you immediately regret it.
Then you immediately, horribly, want his reply.
It comes the next day.
Not from a public account.
Private. Quiet. Short at first.
Hi.
Thank you.
Like, really.
I’ve been thinking about you a lot.
Your face goes hot.
You type back, hands shaking.
You don’t have to. I’m really fine. I didn’t do it to get anything.
His reply is immediate.
I know. That’s why it mattered.
Can I just… talk to you a little?
I won’t ask for your name if you don’t want.
You hesitate, then type.
Okay.
The conversation starts small.
He asks if you got home safe that night. You say yes. He tells you he slept for twelve hours afterward, like his body crashed once the adrenaline wore off. You tell him you’ve never seen a stadium that loud in your life. He agrees, says sometimes it feels like being inside a wave.
Then, slowly, he gets braver.
He tells you what it felt like in that moment. How the stage lights got too bright. How the sound went sharp. How his body started to float away from him and he hated it, hated the helplessness. He admits he looked for one of his members and couldn’t find them and for a second he thought, I have to do this alone.
Then you yelled his name.
You read that line three times.
You type back before you can overthink it.
I’m sorry it happened.
But you did so good.
You stayed. You breathed. You finished the show.
That’s huge.
There’s a pause.
Then he replies.
You sound like you know what it feels like.
Your throat tightens.
You decide to be honest.
I do.
Another pause.
Can I call you?
Your heart leaps into your throat.
You stare at the screen, then type.
Yeah.
If it’s okay, no video.
He replies right away.
Okay. No video.
Thank you.
When your phone rings, you answer with your voice small.
“Hello?”
His voice fills your ear, soft and careful.
“Hi,” he says, and then he laughs quietly, like he’s nervous too. “It’s me. It’s really me.”
Your chest does something strange.
“I know,” you whisper, and you hate that you sound like you’re smiling.
He exhales. “I’ve wanted to say this out loud. Thank you.”
You close your eyes. “You already did.”
“No,” he insists gently. “Not like this. Not properly.”
You swallow. “You’re welcome.”
He goes quiet for a second, then says, “I keep replaying it in my head. The way you looked at me.”
You freeze.
“What do you mean?”
He clears his throat like he’s trying to pick words that won’t scare you.
“It didn’t feel like…” he hesitates, then continues, “it didn’t feel like you were watching me. It felt like you were with me. Like you were holding the other end of the rope when I was slipping.”
Your eyes sting unexpectedly.
“That’s dramatic,” you manage, trying to deflect.
He huffs. “I am dramatic.”
Then, softer, “But I meant it.”
The silence that follows is warm and terrifying.
You hear his breathing through the phone, steady, controlled, but you can feel the vulnerability underneath.
“I don’t want to make this weird,” he says finally. “I don’t want to scare you. I just… I want to know you.”
Your heart thuds.
“You don’t even know my name,” you whisper.
“I want to,” he says. “If you’ll let me.”
So you tell him.
And when he repeats it, your name in his voice makes your stomach flip in a way that feels dangerously close to happiness.
He texts you when he can, sometimes in the middle of a busy schedule, little messages that make you smile at stupid times.
A picture of his coffee with a caption: breathing practice.
A selfie of his eyes only: I’m tired today.
A voice note: I did okay. I’m proud of myself.
You start doing it too.
You send him reminders to eat. You send him a photo of the sky when it’s the same color as the stage lights that night. You send him short check-ins when you can tell he’s spiraling.
How’s your chest today?
Did you sleep?
Are you grounding or are you doom-scrolling?
He replies with irritated affection.
Stop reading me so well.
Thank you for reading me so well.
He doesn’t flirt at first. Not really. He’s cautious. Like he’s afraid to ruin the one safe thing he found.
But little things slip through.
He tells you he likes your laugh.
He tells you he thinks about your voice.
He tells you you’re brave.
One night, weeks in, he calls you after a show. You can tell right away he’s not okay.
His voice is too quiet.
You sit up in bed. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
He exhales shakily. “It almost happened again.”
Your stomach tightens. “A panic attack?”
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I felt it coming.”
You soften your voice instantly. “Are you safe right now?”
“I’m in my hotel room,” he says. “I’m sitting on the floor.”
“Good,” you say. “Feet on the ground?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” you whisper. “Breathe with me.”
And you do the same slow pattern you did at the barricade.
In.
Out.
He follows.
His breathing steadies over the phone, uneven at first, then smoother. You hear him swallow hard, hear the emotion creeping into his voice.
“I hate this,” he admits quietly. “I hate feeling weak.”
“You’re not weak,” you say, firm. “You’re tired. You’re human. And you’re still here.”
He goes silent.
Then he says, voice raw, “I wish you were here.”
Your chest tightens.
“I wish I was too,” you admit.
Another beat.
Then, so soft you almost miss it, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
The words knock the air out of you.
You blink in the dark, heart pounding.
“Hannie,” you whisper, because it slips out naturally, because you can’t help it.
He makes a sound like he’s embarrassed. “Don’t tease me.”
“I’m not teasing you,” you say, voice shaking a little. “I think I’m already there.”
He goes so quiet it’s like the world holds its breath.
Then he laughs softly, like relief.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. That’s… wow.”
You smile through the lump in your throat. “Yeah.”
He breathes out slowly, and you can hear him smiling too.
“Can we take it slow?” he asks. “I’m scared I’ll ruin it.”
“You won’t,” you promise. “And yeah. Slow.”
He exhales, like that alone calms him.
“Can I see you?” he asks. “Like, in person. Not just a voice.”
You hesitate, then nod even though he can’t see it.
“Yeah,” you say. “We’ll figure it out.”
“I’ll do it properly,” he says, voice brightening with determination. “I’ll ask you on a date like a normal person.”
You laugh. “You’re not a normal person.”
He gasps, offended. “I can be normal.”
“You’re literally calling from a hotel room after a stadium show,” you tease.
“Normal enough,” he insists, and you can hear his smile.
When you finally meet again, it’s quiet.
Not a barricade. Not a stadium.
A small coffee shop in a tucked-away corner, a time that isn’t busy, security far enough away to let him breathe. He comes in wearing a cap and a mask and oversized clothes, and you still recognize him instantly.
He recognizes you too, like he never forgot your face even once.
He stops in front of you and just stares for a second, eyes shining.
“It’s you,” he says softly.
You smile, nervous. “It’s me.”
He bows, just a little, and it’s familiar enough to make your chest ache.
“Thank you,” he says again, but this time it isn’t just gratitude. It’s devotion. It’s something deeper.
You swallow. “You already thanked me.”
“I’m going to keep thanking you,” he says, eyes crinkling. “It’s my thing now.”
You laugh.
He reaches out slowly, like he’s asking permission, and takes your hand.
His palm is warm. His fingers shake slightly.
He looks embarrassed by it and tries to hide it by squeezing your hand a little tighter.
You squeeze back.
And in that moment, you realize something quietly life-changing.
You didn’t just calm him down that night.
He gave you something too.
He gave you a place to put your care. A place to belong. A love that isn’t loud, but is real.
You sit together over coffee, talking like you’re making up for lost time. He’s funny and shy, he keeps looking at you like he can’t believe you’re real. You keep watching him breathe, keep noticing the moments he grounds himself without thinking, like he learned it and kept it.
At one point the shop gets a little louder, a burst of laughter from a nearby table, and you see his shoulders tense.
Before he can spiral, you rub your thumb over his knuckles.
“Hey,” you whisper. “Look at me.”
He does immediately.
“Breathe,” you say softly.
He smiles, small and grateful, and inhales slow.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Okay.”
Later, when he walks you back to your car, he lingers like he doesn’t want the moment to end.
“So,” he says, hands shoved in his pockets, rocking on his heels. “This was a date.”
You grin. “Was it?”
He squints at you. “Yes.”
You laugh. “Okay, Hannie. It was a date.”
He looks pleased, then nervous again.
“Can I…” he starts, then stops, like his courage slips.
You tilt your head. “Can you what?”
He looks down, then up, eyes soft.
“Can I hug you?” he asks quietly. “I feel like I owe you one.”
You step forward without answering, arms wrapping around him.
He freezes for half a second, then melts into you like he’s been holding his breath for months. His arms come around your waist carefully, like he’s afraid to squeeze too hard, afraid you’ll vanish.
He exhales against your hair.
“Thank you,” he whispers again.
You pull back just enough to look at him. “For what this time?”
He smiles, cheeks pink.
“For being the person who saw me,” he says. “And didn’t run.”
Your throat tightens.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you promise.
His gaze dips to your mouth, then back up, like he’s thinking about it and trying not to.
“Good,” he whispers. “Because I think I’m going to keep falling.”
