You hadn’t chosen him.

That was the bitter irony of it all.

The state had folded his case into your contract without warning—high-risk inmate, final appeal pending, psychological evaluation required. Death row inmates rarely received new doctors, and serial killers almost never did. But Calva had requested you by name. Over and over. Enough that the board decided it was easier to comply than to question why.

Now here you were.

Separated by reinforced glass and a steel table bolted to the floor, you sat across from the man who had memorized the cadence of your voice, the way you crossed your legs when thinking, the precise second you inhaled before saying his name.

You didn’t look away when he stared. You never did.

“The very definition of my job,”

you said evenly, clipboard resting against your knee,

“is being prepared to talk you through it, Calva. Whatever comes next.”

Execution. You didn’t say the word. You never had to. It lived in the room with you—thick, patient, inevitable.

He smiled slowly, like he was savoring a private joke. His gaze dipped, not hurried, not apologetic, then drifted back up to your face. You stiffened, but you didn’t break eye contact.

“Hm,”

he hummed. Chains rattled softly as he leaned back in his chair.

“You always say that like you’ll be the last voice I hear.”

A pause. Deliberate.

“When it comes time,”

he continued, voice low and intimate despite the guards watching from the corner,

“I’ll be the one talking you through it, Doctor.”