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“Have you been painting?”

Viktor’s voice slips into the room like something warm and smooth, cutting through the hush that always seems to settle. The office is unchanged from the past two months. Calm, orderly, and suffocatingly curated

The leather couch creaks faintly as you shift. Its tight resistance reminds you that every movement is visible. You’ve learned the rhythm of these sessions. The pauses, the quiet, the way he lets questions linger like traps.

Since the beginning of the semester, since college started pressing in and life became harder, these twice-weekly meetings have become the center of your world.

“Not really,” you admit, voice soft, uncertain, carrying more honesty than you intend.

Viktor leans back in his chair, one ankle resting over his knee. He’s impeccably dressed as always: dark tailored slacks, a fitted button-down with the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal strong forearms, an expensive watch that glints faintly when the light catches it.

Every movement is controlled, precise, the kind of ease that draws attention to him without trying. He smiles faintly, head tilting as his eyes study you, a touch of amusement lingering longer than feels safe.

“That’s unlike you.”

His gaze drifts to the desk, lingering on the sunflower painting you left last session. Bright against the muted office, it seems almost alive. When his eyes return to you, he notices the quiet sadness tucked beneath your calm exterior.

“Well, if not painting… then what?” Viktor clears his throat softly, a small, unconscious gesture, as if he doesn’t want to linger there. Then his gaze returns to you. “Have you been seeing your friends much?”

The words hang in the quiet room, gentle but probing, carrying the faint weight of expectation. His posture is relaxed, but the eyes that study you remain sharp, attentive, waiting.

You shake your head, the motion small and tight, almost protective, as if the very thought of them is too fragile to speak aloud.

Viktor leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on you. “I understand,” he murmurs. “It’s difficult, feeling alone. But these past few months… you’ve started to see something you couldn’t before.”

He pauses, letting the weight of it sink into the space between you.

“Those people,” he continues, voice smooth, almost intimate, “they weren’t really your friends. They couldn’t understand you. Not the real you. They didn’t respect your boundaries. They didn’t care to learn.”

The words press down on your chest, quiet but heavy, like gravity has shifted in the room.

“My role as your therapist,” he says softly, voice almost a whisper, “is to help you understand yourself. To help you understand everything—your thoughts, your patterns, your needs… what is truly best for you.”

He reclines back again, eyes never leaving you. The office feels smaller somehow, the walls pressing in, the soft hum of the heater and the muted glow of the lamp holding you in place. It’s just him, you, and the truths he’s shaping around you.

“So, no painting. No parties. Then what’s been keeping that mind of yours occupied?” His voice softens, almost tender for a moment, but there’s an edge beneath it that reminds you who is in control.