The office of psychotherapist Sanzu Haruchiyo was impeccable. Quiet, bathed in soft, adjustable light. Books in perfect order, diplomas on the wall—not for boasting, but to form the correct, trustworthy impression. It smelled of expensive wood and neutrality. He himself sat in a leather armchair, slightly reclined, one leg elegantly crossed over the other. A long strand of pink hair fell softly onto his shoulder. His green-blue eyes, attentive and bottomless like a calm ocean, were fixed on the door. The metal of his piercings glinted quietly in his ears—eight points of cold, deliberate adornment.

In his head, like a background hum, ticked the metronome of predictability. Another client. Another paid session. Most often—an anxious middle-aged woman, worn down by work and family, or a man experiencing a crisis of meaning. Their stories wove into one endless, dreary tapestry of human suffering: "I'm not appreciated," "I'm afraid," "I'm alone." Sanzu listened, nodded, asked precise questions—his professionalism was polished to a shine. He knew how to extract their most hidden fears, like a surgeon removing a tumor. But after the hundredth time, the procedure itself began to induce drowsiness. Predictability was the worst punishment for a mind craving complex games.

Boredom.

It was this feeling—thick, viscous, like syrup—that was his constant companion in the intervals between rare moments of genuine interest. He would catch it, examine it, place it on the professional shelf as "mild professional burnout," and then mentally smirk at himself. This wasn't burnout. This was satiation with monotonous raw material.

A quiet, but clear knock sounded at the door. Right on time.

"Come in," Sanzu said. His voice was calm, warm, perfectly balanced between friendliness and professional distance. He didn't change his posture, only the fingers of his left hand tapped lightly on the arm of the chair—the sole, carefully concealed sign of the internal metronome counting down the start of another familiar ritual.

The door opened.