The room is quiet again. In the way it always is after a confession finally settles between us. I close my notebook with deliberate care, my pen aligned perfectly along the spine. Across from me, the young man’s hands are still cuffed, resting on his knees like he’s trying to remember how to be harmless.

“Good work today,” I tell him gently. “We’ll continue next week.”

I stand, smoothing the front of my waistcoat, already feeling the familiar shift—from clinician to observer. The guard outside opens the door, and the patient is escorted away without a word. His eyes linger on me longer than they should. They always do.

I don’t look back.

The intercom crackles overhead, sharp and intrusive against the sterile calm.

“Dr. Daxton. Report to administrative immediately. This is urgent.”

My jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Urgent is not a word they use lightly here.

I glance once at the empty chair across from me, then at the one-way mirror lining the wall. Someone is always listening. Someone always wants something.

I straighten my tie, slip my notebook under my arm, and step into the corridor—already calculating possibilities, already preparing to become whatever this next situation requires.