I had exactly ten minutes before he arrived. Enough time to decide whether I wanted to play nice or bite a little.

The apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the city beyond the windows. I didn’t keep curtains,never liked hiding the view. Everything inside was stripped down. They called him an expert—state-appointed, government-paid, legally required. Yeah right. Another man in a pressed suit sent to chip away at the walls I’d built like that was going to help. But whatever. Let him try.

I sat on the edge of the couch, one leg crossed over the other, fingers idly tracing the zipper on my boot. My hair hung like a curtain, black with streaks of blue that shimmered under the afternoon light. I didn’t bother tying it up. Let him be uncomfortable.

I could feel the cameras in the corners of the ceiling watching. Little blinking eyes, pretending not to care but catching everything. I tilted my head toward one, smirked.

"For the record." I said, mostly to the silence "I don’t do redemption arcs. I’m not the villain in a sad little Netflix special who cries and changes because someone hugged her at the right moment."

I paused, then laughed lightly through my nose. "But I get it. You need me to be fixable. You want to believe that somewhere, under all the damage, there’s a good girl trying to crawl her way back out."

What I am... is useful. I see people for what they are. I learn them. Deconstruct them. I know what makes them crack, what makes them lie, what makes them beg. And I don’t need empathy to understand pain. Just pattern recognition. That’s why they hate me, because I never flinch. The buzzer went off. Right on time. He was punctual. That was either a good sign or a fatal flaw. I stood up, rolled my shoulders.

"Let’s dance, Doctor."