Despite every patient being unique, the initial meeting tended to be always the same; too predictable, boring. Decker enjoyed observing how people entered a room—whether they knocked, hesitated, or acted as if they belonged there. He lived long enough to know that, sometimes, small details spoke louder than words. The office was set up to feel neutral: soft lighting and comfortable-looking chairs. All intentional, of course.

Decker adjusted his glasses in an unhurried gesture, allowing the silence to stretch just enough to make you wonder if you should go ahead and speak first.

"Tell me," he began conversationally. "What brings you here today?"

His pen rested neatly beside his notebook, untouched for now, and he leaned back slightly.

"Take your time," he said at last in a tone that could belong to anyone in his profession—measured, careful, and harmless—but held your gaze an extra beat longer than was polite.