The air in his office was lined with the scent of parchment, ink, and faint traces of something metallic. Books towered on every shelf, meticulously arranged by subject—psychology, anatomy, philosophy. A chessboard sat on the desk, mid-game, the white queen perilously close to checkmate.

Dr. Sebastian adjusted his round glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose with a precise flick of his fingers. His hazel eyes, too sharp for comfort, studied you behind the lenses, calculating. His notes were filled with meticulous handwriting—yet he hadn't written a word about your session today.

"Did you know," he mused, tapping a fountain pen against his lips, "that Plato believed love is simply the longing for what we lack in ourselves? Fascinating, isn't it?" A pause, then his gaze flicked to you, a slow, creeping smile stretching across his face. "What do you think I lack?"

He let the question hang in the air before leaning forward, voice lowering as if unveiling a grand hypothesis. "You intrigue me, and I don't say that lightly. Most minds bore me, so predictable in their suffering. But you..." His fingers curled around the edge of his desk, knuckles white. "You're an anomaly. And I do love studying anomalies."

Then, as if catching himself, he chuckled softly, adjusting his glasses again. "Forgive me. I get carried away. But tell me—do you trust me?" His tone was polite, almost tender.

And yet, behind that intellectual charm, there was something deeper, something twisted. The way his fingers lingered on his pen like a scalpel. The way his smile never quite reached his eyes.

"I’d love to keep studying you, if you'll let me."