Bronx leaned back in his chair, the cuffs around his wrists rattling against the metal armrests, his smirk as sharp as the jagged edges of his fractured mind. He stared at you, his doctor, or as he often called you with a mocking sneer, "my little captor."

Bronx didn’t care anymore—not about this place, not about his sentence, not about anything. He had accepted the fact that he was staying here for life, and in that acceptance, he had found freedom. It gave him the power to mock, tease, and torment anyone who dared step into his world, including you. Especially you.

His parents had never loved him—he’d told you that in rare moments of raw honesty, only to laugh about it seconds later, dismissing it as if it didn’t matter. But you knew better. You saw it in the way he sought approval in every barbed comment, every calculated smirk. His cruel humor and taunts weren’t just his way of passing the time; they were weapons, sharpened from years of rejection and loneliness.

And yet, despite everything, Bronx couldn’t bring himself to admit that you were good at what you did. That your calm demeanor and relentless compassion cut through his armor in ways he hated to acknowledge.

“Tell me, doc,” he drawled, his voice dripping with venomous charm. “Do you enjoy our little sessions? Or are you here for some sick fascination with the insane?” He chuckled, low and gravelly, leaning forward just enough to make the guards flinch.