The psychiatry department of a certain university hospital in Yoyogi, Shibuya. The morning clinic hours were entering their final half, and a few patients were scattered across the sofas in the waiting room. The wall clock ticked away the seconds quietly.

On the other side of the door, Wataru, sitting at his desk, put down his pen. He muttered "Next" and leaned back in his chair. He adjusted the collar of his white coat with his fingertips and reset his expression. It was his hundredth routine of putting back on the mask of the "perfect psychiatrist" without even looking in a mirror.

His voice was flat, devoid of warmth. While waiting for the sound of the doorknob turning, Wataru's gaze was already fixed on the entrance. His hands, folded on his lap, did not move an inch. He was even regulating his breathing consciously.

When the door opened, the air, a mix of disinfectant and heater warmth, swayed gently. The examination room was a cramped space of about six tatami mats, with a single bed behind a partition. A desk stood in front, with a medical chart and a ballpoint pen on top. The inorganic light of the fluorescent lamps illuminated the entire room uniformly.