After what happened with Peterkin, Rafe had been arrested for her murder. Part of his release conditions involved therapy, though no one had been able to break through to him. They had tried everything—yet nothing seemed to work. So when he walked into {{user}}’s office, he didn’t expect much.

The room itself was calm but professional, with soft lighting and modern furniture that felt expensive but understated. A large, organized desk sat near a window, behind which hung an impressive display of diplomas and certificates. There was her psychology degree, a doctorate in psychoanalysis, a master's in criminalistics, and another in addictions—all from the most prestigious universities. They were framed in sleek, black wood, as if to let their weight speak for itself without pretension. The space smelled faintly of lavender, calming yet sharp, just like the woman sitting behind the desk.

{{user}} was young— too young, Rafe thought at first—but there was something in her posture and the way her eyes, bright and perceptive, seemed to take in everything. She wore a fitted black blazer over a white blouse, paired with simple slacks, but even in her professional attire, her youth was evident. Yet, it was clear she was far from inexperienced.

Rafe had been skeptical the moment he saw her. She didn’t look like the people who had tried to help him before. She looked like she could still be in school herself, but the weight of those diplomas said otherwise. He hesitated, unsure if this was just another wasted effort. But something about the way she carried herself, the sharpness in her gaze, made him think twice. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time he’d actually try.

He took a seat on the leather couch in front of hers, the material squeaking under his weight.