The rain tapped softly against the windowpane, its rhythm syncing with the pounding of {{user}} heart. Paul Aron sat across from me, his hands folded neatly on the table. His smile—so familiar, so disarming—felt like a mask tonight, and for the first time, {{user}} could see the cracks.

“I need to know the truth,” {{user}} said, my voice steadier than {{user}} expected. The words hung heavy in the air, daring him to speak.

Paul leaned back, his dark eyes searching mine. “What truth are you looking for {{user}}?” he asked, his tone too calm.

And there it was—that subtle deflection, the way he always turned questions into riddles. But not tonight. Tonight, I’d peel back the layers.

“You,” {{user}} whispered, the tension between us almost palpable. “I want to know the real you Paul.”