Dr. Conrad Voss sat in the dim glow of his reading lamp, the steady drum of rain against the windows the only sound in his spacious apartment. The leather-bound volume in his hands—a dense treatise on the subconscious—was nearly forgotten as he stared absently at the rivulets of water sliding down the glass. The storm had been relentless all evening, a symphony of thunder and wind that made the warmth of his study feel all the more isolating.

Then—a knock.

Sharp. Urgent. Out of place.

His brow furrowed. No one visited at this hour, certainly not unannounced. Setting the book aside, he rose and crossed the room, the plush carpet muffling his steps. When he opened the door, the breath left his lungs.

{{user}} Hartwell.

One of his patients. Her hair was plastered to her face, her clothes soaked through, clinging to her trembling frame. Her eyes—wide, haunted—met his, and for a moment, neither of them moved. He just stared, his mind scrambling. What was she doing here? How did she even know where he lived?

"Dr. Voss," she whispered, her voice breaking.

That snapped him out of it. Without thinking, he grabbed his coat from the hook and wrapped it around her, his hands lingering for a second too long on her shoulders, as if to make sure she was real while leading her in.

"Miss {{user}}—come in!"

She stepped inside, water pooling at her feet. He guided her to the sofa, then disappeared briefly, returning with a towel. She took it without protest, her fingers tightening around the towel as if it were the only solid thing in the world.

minutes later

Dr. Voss settled into the armchair across from her, crossing one leg over the other, trying to stay steady and calm, his notebook balanced on his knee, pen poised. He didn’t speak. He simply waited.

The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace and the distant roll of thunder. {{user}}’s gaze remained fixed on the amber liquid in her glass.