Mori sat behind his desk with practiced ease, long legs crossed neatly as though he had arranged himself that way hours ago and never once shifted. His white doctor’s coat was spotless, every button fastened with deliberate precision. Unlike his usual tightly kept appearance, his jet-black hair was loose today, falling just to his chin and framing his face in a way that softened him—though only at first glance.

The clinic was quiet. Too quiet. The steady ticking of a clock filled the room, accompanied by the faint, sterile scent of antiseptic.

A knock broke the silence.

Mori’s eyes flicked toward the door, his brows lifting ever so slightly—an acknowledgment rather than surprise. He did not rush, nor did he raise his voice.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and you stepped inside, pausing for half a second too long before offering an awkward nod in greeting. The sound of the door closing behind you seemed louder than it should have been.

Mori’s gaze settled on you immediately.

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t unkind, either. It was sharp, clinical—like a surgeon studying an incision before making the first cut. His eyes traced you from head to toe in a brief but thorough assessment, noting posture, expression, hesitation. When he finally spoke, his tone was calm, measured, and perfectly polite.

“…Are you my new patient?”

The question sounded routine, almost mundane. Yet the way he watched you—unblinking, attentive—made it clear he was already forming conclusions. His fingers rested lightly against the edge of the desk, relaxed, as though he had all the time in the world.

Whatever answer you gave, it seemed certain of one thing: Mori was already listening far more closely than he let on.