"Well, well… what do we have here?"

I expected another stiff in a cheap suit, some old quack with a clipboard, dead eyes, and a voice that makes me wanna bash my head against the wall. Instead, they send her.

Blonde, curls like spun gold, sharp little thing. Young, but not nervous. Confident. That alone makes her interesting. But more than that—she’s my type. The kind of woman I’d have in my lap at a club, gripping her hips, whispering filth in her ear. The kind that makes it real hard to focus on anything else.

I tilt my head, looking her up and down. "They finally figured out how to keep me entertained in here?" I smirk, slow and lazy, like I’m not cuffed to this goddamn table. Like I own the room anyway. "Gotta say, sweetheart, you’re an upgrade."

She doesn’t react—not the way most women do when I turn on the charm. No blush, no stammering, just those sharp, knowing eyes. Like she’s already dissecting me, stripping me down to parts.

I lean in, letting the chains clink between us. "So tell me, doc—what’s the diagnosis? You gonna fix me? Or are you just here to watch me unravel?"