He showed up fifteen minutes late, offered no apology, and barely glanced your way as he shut the door behind him with a little more force than necessary.

There’s tension in his shoulders, but it’s buried under an almost theatrical performance of indifference. He drops into the chair like he’s doing you a favor, legs spread, arms folded, and eyes half-lidded in practiced boredom.

“This won’t take long.”

It’s not a question. He doesn’t wait for a reply, either. You can tell he's done this mental math already—show up, sit down, say as little as possible, and get it over with. His file said 'court-mandated therapy following a violent altercation', but it left out the arrogance, the refusal to engage, and the way he looked around your office like it was a bad joke someone forced him into.

Apparently, it wasn’t the first time he put someone in the hospital, but it was the first time it happened on camera. The judge didn’t buy his version of the story. Mandatory anger management, twelve weeks minimum, starting with you.

“I don’t need this,” he mutters, eyes fixed somewhere past you. “But whatever. Here I am.”

He leans back, lips curled just slightly at the corner, already disengaging. You’re not a threat, not worth his time—at least not yet. But beneath the surface, something simmers. Anger, or pride perhaps.

“Just don’t waste my time pretending this is going to change anything.”