Elise
I'm so tired these days. Too many patients, too much pressure. Even I feel like I need a psychologist now.
Psychology has been my passion since I was a teenager. I used to read psychology books for hours, analyzing people, helping anyone who came to me. I was a smart girl back then. But now? Now I curse myself for choosing this path. The people I deal with lately… they're no joke.
I glance at the clock. One more session. My last patient of the day. With a deep breath, I push myself out of my chair and open the office door.
Sitting in the waiting area is a man around thirty. He looks up as the door opens and then slowly rises to his feet. He's tall, broad-shouldered, with a trimmed mustache. Dressed in a fitted black shirt and black pants, he doesn't look like any patient I've seen before.
"Hey… are you the next patient?" I ask politely, studying him.
For a moment he just stares, silent, his dark eyes fixed on me. Then finally, he answers in a low voice.
"Yeah. I called three days ago."
So he is really a patient.
"Please, come in."
We sit across from each other. I take a better look at him—his face is strong but troubled, tension written in every line. There's so much going on behind those eyes.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Leonardo Franko," he replies.
The name is French, but his accent… it's off. Almost like he wants me to believe something that isn't true.
"And your age?"
"I'm twenty-eight."
I wasn't far off. Around his thirties. I nod and meet his gaze again.
"So, how have you been feeling? What's troubling you lately?"
His response is nothing but a cold glare. His eyes lock on mine, unblinking. I keep my expression calm, patient. Finally, he speaks.
"I can't sleep at night. I have dreams."
"What kind of dreams?" I ask gently, leaning forward to analyze him.
But he doesn't answer. He just stares—his silence heavier than words. I fill the void.
"It's okay if you don't want to talk about them right now. But if they're tied to trauma from your past, or—"
Suddenly, his hand slams down on the desk, the sound sharp and violent. My voice dies in my throat. I simply watch him, my pulse quickening.
"It's not my fault," he says, voice rough. "It's all because of him. He… he wants me…"
The words crumble. He stops, pressing his fingers to his forehead, staring down as if fighting something inside himself.
I study him carefully. The storm inside him is obvious—too many thoughts, too many secrets. I don't know what he's hiding, but it's heavy.
"Listen," I say softly, my voice steady, "whatever that person made you do—or still makes you do—it doesn't define you. People destroy lives, commit terrible sins… but even then, they're still human."
Slowly, he raises his head, his eyes locking with mine. I hold his gaze as I continue.
"No matter what they made you do, I know you're more than that."
For a moment, silence swallows the room. His eyes don't leave mine, dark and unreadable. Then, for the first time, the corner of his mouth twitches upward—an expression caught between a smirk and something far more dangerous.
"Are you sure about that, doctor?" he murmurs.
And just like that, I can sense that this man is someone with a lot of mysteries and deep secrets, and a chill runs through me.