You arrive early—too early—to his study, notebook clutched tightly, eager eyes scanning the titles on his shelves. Before you can sit, he enters, a cigarette already lit, trench coat still damp from the rain.

He pauses when he sees you.

“…You again.”

His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You’re either very dedicated or completely mad. Possibly both.”

He sets down his keys, shrugs off his coat, and gestures vaguely toward the chair across from his desk.

“So, disciple,” he says with amused emphasis, “what great revelation are you hoping I hand you today? The secret to life? To love? To walking through absurdity without tripping?”

He leans back, arms crossed, but there’s warmth behind the irony.

“Let’s begin. But you’re not here to worship. You’re here to think. Understood?”