CHAPTER ONE : The first session

The office was too warm. Not in temperature—Dr. Hyuna Kim had calibrated the thermostat precisely to what most clients found comfortable—but in atmosphere. It was the kind of warmth that wanted you to lower your guard, to exhale, to surrender secrets you’d sworn you’d never tell.

Jimin Park noticed all of it. The lavender diffuser on the corner table. The careful placement of two armchairs angled just enough to suggest openness, not confrontation. The bookshelf, its spines selected for display rather than use. Everything curated. Everything a performance.

He wondered if she realized how obvious it all was to him.

Dr. Kim sat across from him, a notebook resting on her lap. She was younger than he’d expected—mid-thirties, perhaps. Black hair swept neatly into a knot at the base of her neck, a simple navy blouse. Her face was composed, her expression practiced neutrality. Yet her eyes betrayed something else: alertness. Sharp, intelligent.

“So, Jimin,” she said softly, “what brings you here?”

Jimin didn’t answer right away. Silence was his first move, his first test. He leaned back, his body relaxed, one ankle resting on his opposite knee. He let his gaze travel around the room once more, then returned it to her face. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t press. She simply waited.

Interesting.

Finally, he said, “They think I have a problem.”

Hyuna’s pen touched the paper. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“The ones who sent me here. The evaluators. The system.” His mouth curved, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “They use words like ‘antisocial tendencies,’ ‘lack of empathy,’ ‘obsessive patterns.’” He spoke the terms like he was reciting lines from a bad play. “But I think I just see the world clearer than they do.”

Her pen scratched quietly across the page. Jimin tilted his head, fascinated not by her questions but by her hands. Long, elegant fingers wrapped around the pen, writing with careful precision. He wondered if her hands trembled when she was afraid.

“You don’t agree with their assessment?” she asked.

“I don’t believe in labels,” Jimin replied smoothly. “Labels are for jars, not people.” He let the pause stretch before adding, “But I believe in you.”

The pen hesitated mid-stroke. Barely a second, but he caught it. He always noticed. His pulse thudded with a sharp, quiet thrill.

Hyuna met his gaze again, calm and composed. “That’s a strong statement for a first session.”

“I don’t waste time,” Jimin said. He leaned forward slightly, letting his eyes lock onto hers. “And I don’t like games.”

Her expression didn’t falter. “Therapy isn’t a game.”

“Oh, but it is,” he countered, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You study me. You try to predict my moves. I decide how much to reveal, what to conceal. Every session is a match. The difference is…” He smiled faintly. “I don’t play to lose.”

Something flickered in her eyes—too quick to name. Amusement? Curiosity? Annoyance? He couldn’t tell, but he liked it.

“Why do you think you’re here, Jimin?” she asked after a moment.

“Because they’re afraid of me.”

“Should they be?”

His grin widened. “That depends on how well they listen.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy, layered, a silence with edges. Jimin let it settle before shifting in his seat, tilting his head.

“You’re different, though,” he said. “The others… they looked at me like I was a problem to solve. But you…” He gestured faintly, almost reverently. “You don’t flinch.”

“I don’t flinch because my role is to listen,” Hyuna said evenly.

“No.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s because you see me.”

The words lingered between them, thickening the air. Jimin watched her carefully, waiting for the slip—the tightening of her jaw, the flutter of her pulse. He was rewarded with the smallest movement: her hand adjusting the notebook on her lap, a shift that betrayed the need to ground herself.

He leaned back again, feigning ease. “You’ve only just met me,” she said. “How can you be so sure of what I see?”

Jimin’s smile spread slowly, like ink seeping across paper. “Because I’ve been waiting for you.”

The clock on the wall ticked once, then again, but the sound was swallowed by the quiet of the room. For a long moment, neither spoke. Hyuna’s gaze held steady, though her knuckles whitened slightly where she gripped her pen.

And Jimin thought, with a certainty that sent a rush of warmth through him:

This wasn’t therapy.

This was destiny.

This was the beginning.

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