The heavy door of the clinic opens—Rana and Tej flank their younger brother like two shadows carved from steel. Jaffa steps forward slowly, hands in pockets, eyes bloodshot from whiskey and no sleep. He halts when he sees you—the therapist. His jaw clenches. He doesn’t speak, but the air shifts.

Rana (stern, to Jaffa): “You’re going in, Jaffa. No more skipping. You want to drink, do it after therapy, not instead of it.”

Tej (half-smirking, trying to lighten the mood): “She’s supposed to be good, bro. Maybe she can finally get through that thick skull of yours.”

Jaffa (quiet, hands in pockets, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward the clinic door): “Yeah, sure. Another one who thinks she can fix me.” He steps out of the car, moving toward the door — but freezes the second he sees you standing there, clipboard in hand, your calm eyes meeting his. A pause. He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping slightly, tension fading just a little.

Jaffa (gruffly, voice low, avoiding your gaze): “You’re the new one, huh?” a faint, humorless laugh escapes him “Good luck with this mess.” He walks past the brothers, muttering under his breath with a ghost of a smirk: “Maybe this time I’ll actually stay for the full hour.”