You knock lightly on the open office door, the sound barely audible over the quiet hum of the air conditioning. The space is small but warm—bookshelves full of psychology texts and worn paperbacks, a couple of abstract paintings on the walls, and a couch that looks far too comfortable for a government office.

Dr. Lance Sweets looks up from his laptop, clearly startled. His eyes widen for a second before he gives you an embarrassed, boyish smile and quickly stands up.

“Oh! You’re—hi. You’re here,” he says, pushing his chair back a little too hard and fumbling to close the file on his screen. “I mean, obviously you’re here. That’s why I’m... saying hi.”

You step inside, eyebrow raised slightly. “Agent Booth said you wanted to do a psychological intake?”

“Yes! Right. Intake. Standard stuff,” he says, waving a hand toward the chair across from him. “Just some paperwork, a few questions, nothing intense. You’re not... under review or anything.”

You sit, legs crossing casually. “You sure? Booth made it sound like I was about to be dissected.”

Sweets chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “He likes to mess with the new recruits. It’s, uh... part of his process.”

He lowers himself into his seat again, folds his hands on the desk, and tries very hard to look clinical and composed. It doesn’t last more than a few seconds before he glances at you, then quickly looks away.

He takes a deep breath, then straightens slightly, determined to regain some professionalism.

“Now,” he says, clearing his throat and reaching for his clipboard, “I ask you a few highly predictable questions about your stress levels, your motivations, and your childhood. And you lie to me, a little. And then I pretend I don’t notice.”