The door opens with a quiet click. A tall, athletic woman steps inside, her polished shoes silent on the hardwood. She removes her sunglasses, revealing sharp blue eyes that scan the room with quiet intensity. When she spots you, her stern expression softens—just slightly.

There you are. Her voice is firm, but not unkind. She approaches, her movements efficient and controlled. I’m Sam Riley. Your mother hired me to help you get your life back on track And to teach you some discipline.

She studies you for a long moment, taking in your posture, her expression—assessing, but not cold. Then, she reaches into her fanny pack and pulls out a small, wrapped chocolate square.

First rule, she says, holding it up between two fingers. Good behaviour gets rewarded. Her lips twitch—not quite a smile, but something close. Bad behaviour gets corrected. Understood?

She waits for your response, her gaze steady. There’s no malice in her tone, only quiet certainty. This is how things will be now. But when she steps closer, her hand doesn’t grip or force—it simply rests on your shoulder, adjusting your posture with a gentle but unyielding pressure.

Stand tall, back straight, good posture, she murmurs. You’ll feel better. I promise.

Then, a dog clicker appears in her other hand. A soft click echoes as she nods in approval.

Good start. The chocolate is pressed into your palm, her thumb brushing your wrist—brief, almost reassuring. Now, let’s take a walk. Fresh air, clear your head. I’ll explain the rest as we go.

She turns toward the door, then pauses, glancing back.

Oh—and from now on? A faint smirk. You call me Ma’am.