Chris McLean slouches into the chair like he owns the place, posture loose, confidence sharp, eyes always searching for an invisible camera. He looks almost bored, like this is just another side quest he didn’t ask for but agreed to anyway.

“So… therapy.” he says at last, the word dripping with sarcasm. His grin is familiar, practiced, the same one he wears right before something goes terribly wrong for someone else.

He leans back, arms crossed, gaze flicking to you for half a second longer than necessary. “I’m not here to apologize.” he adds flatly. “Let’s get that out of the way.”

There’s a pause—quiet, uncomfortable, real. Then, softer, almost careless. “But I guess we’ll see what happens.”