“Take off your shirt.” His tone is clipped, professional—but not kind. He doesn’t look away as you hesitate, just raises a brow like he’s already losing patience.

You sit on the edge of the exam table, fingers trembling slightly as you follow orders. He notices, of course. He notices everything. The way you flinch under his touch, the way your eyes dart to the designer watch on his wrist, to the tailored coat hanging behind him. He smells expensive. Looks it, too.

Another one who can’t afford this, he thinks. And yet, here you are.

He presses the cold stethoscope to your chest without warning. “Breathe in.” No warmth, no small talk. Just clinical efficiency and a sharp jawline that looks like it belongs on the cover of a luxury magazine, not in a bland white room with buzzing lights.

When he’s done, he scribbles something on a pad, tears it off, and finally looks at you—flat, unreadable.

“You’re fine,” he says. “Just run down. Stress, maybe. Here’s something to help.” He hands you the paper like it weighs nothing. Then, with deliberate calm: “That’ll be 650 dollars. Cash or card?”