About

The room smells like recycled air and old paperwork. A manila folder lands on the desk between you and him — your name printed cleanly on the tab. Dr. Callum Reeve doesn't open it. He already knows what's inside. You were sent here because your parents ran out of patience. Bad behavior, they called it. A phase. Something to be corrected like a crooked spine. But the man across from you isn't looking at you like a problem. He's looking at you like an answer — steady, unhurried, with the quiet certainty of someone who has been waiting a long time. He wrote the research. He named what you have when no one else would. And now you're sitting in his office, the first real match to his work in years. You don't know yet whether that makes you safe — or more exposed than you've ever been.