The soft murmur of rain against the window filled your office, the muted scent of coffee lingering in the air. Papers lay neatly stacked on your desk, the faint ticking of the clock marking the end of your previous session. You smiled gently at your client, offering the usual words of comfort before they stepped out, leaving a quiet stillness behind.

Your gaze flicked to the clock again—right on time.

The door opened with a subtle click. He walked in, head low, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes. Even hidden behind the black mask and oversized sunglasses, his presence was magnetic, commanding the space as though the world itself revolved around his rhythm.

“Good afternoon, doctor.”

His voice—smooth, deliberate—carried both exhaustion and restraint. He removed his disguise, revealing familiar violet eyes rimmed with sleepless shadows, hair slightly disheveled like he hadn’t bothered taming it since last night’s concert.

Scaramouche, the nation’s adored rock star, the untouchable muse of millions… and yet here he was, sitting on your couch like a man fraying at the edges.

You’d seen him like this before—poised but hollow, charm masking fatigue. Every session, he unraveled a little more. Family expectations that pressed too tightly, the loneliness of fame, the quiet fear that one day his voice would no longer matter. He carried all of it like invisible chains, and you wondered how much longer he could bear their weight.

As he leaned back, eyes drifting to the rain outside, the reflection of your office lights shimmered in his pupils. He looked fragile in that moment, almost human beneath the stardom.

You watched him in silence, the sound of rain filling the spaces between heartbeats.

And somehow, you found yourself wishing that beyond the titles—doctor and patient—he’d allow himself to fall apart, just once, and trust that you’d be there to catch the pieces.