The conference room was smaller than Lune expected.
It was not the dramatic place his parents' silence had suggested. No machines. No screens. Just a table, four chairs, a box of tissues placed carefully at the center as if emotion could be anticipated and contained. The walls were a soft, inoffensive beige that seemed designed to absorb panic.
Lune sat with his back straight, hands folded. He watched the doctors enter one by one: Dr. Liao, whom he recognized, and another man with wire-rimmed glasses and a thin mouth. The man smiled briefly, professionally, then sat. His smile disappeared the moment he opened the folder.
Lune watched that disappearance closely.
"Thank you for coming back in," the man said to Lune's parents. His voice was calm, rehearsed. "We've completed the initial assessments."
Lune's mother nodded quickly, too quickly. Her knee bounced beneath the table. His father leaned back, arms crossed, jaw set as if bracing for impact.
Dr. Liao glanced at Lune once before turning her attention to the adults. "Before we begin," she said gently, "I want to emphasize that Lune is not in trouble."
The word trouble landed hard anyway.
The man with the glasses cleared his throat. "Based on our observations and evaluations," he began, "Lune presents with traits consistent with high-functioning psychopathy."
The word itself meant nothing to Lune. It was too large, too abstract. What he noticed instead was the immediate change in the room.
His mother's breath caught audibly. His father's shoulders stiffened. The air thickened, as if something invisible had been added to it.
"Psychopathy?" his mother repeated, the word foreign and sharp on her tongue. "But he's just a child."
The man nodded. "Yes. And it's important to understand that this is not a diagnosis of criminal behavior. It's a personality structure—one characterized by emotional detachment, limited empathy, and atypical responses to distress."
Lune listened to the cadence, not the content. The man spoke more slowly now, softer, like he was walking through glass.
Dr. Liao interjected smoothly. "Lune is intelligent. Highly observant. He processes information differently. That difference doesn't mean he's dangerous."
Dangerous. Lune filed the word away.
"There's no cure," the man continued, flipping a page. "But with early intervention, management strategies can be very effective."
Management. Another word adults used when they couldn't fix something.
His father leaned forward. "So what does that mean?" he asked. "What do we do?"
Dr. Liao folded her hands. "It means structure. Clear expectations. Consistent consequences. Teaching Lune what behaviors are acceptable, even if the internal motivation isn't there."
His mother stared at the table. "He doesn't feel… bad?" she asked quietly.
There it was. The real question.
The man hesitated for half a second too long. "He may not experience remorse or empathy in the way others do. But he can learn appropriate responses. He can understand outcomes."
Lune watched his mother's face carefully. The skin around her eyes tightened. Her lips pressed together, as if holding something in.
"And love?" she asked suddenly. "Does he feel love?"
The room went very still.
Dr. Liao answered gently. "Attachment can look different. Affection may be expressed through behavior rather than emotion. What matters is consistency."
Lune did not know what love was supposed to feel like, so he could not miss it. But he recognized loss when he saw it. His mother's shoulders sagged slightly, as if something she had been holding up had finally been taken away.
His father exhaled sharply. "So he's… what. Broken?"
"No," Dr. Liao said firmly. "Different."
Different sounded kinder. It also sounded permanent.
The man slid a pamphlet across the table. Lune watched his mother pick it up with trembling fingers. The cover showed a smiling child, too symmetrical to be real.
"We'll schedule follow-ups," the man said. "And we recommend parental guidance sessions as well. The goal is to help Lune integrate successfully."
Integrate. Another word. Another frame.
Lune looked from face to face. He noticed how his parents avoided his eyes now, not out of anger, but fear. Fear of him. Fear for him. Fear of what this meant for the story they had imagined.
He did not feel sad.
He did not feel relieved.
He felt alert.
Because fear, he was beginning to understand, changed people. And his parents were afraid.