The ward is quiet at this hour. Pale fluorescent light hums above the row of chairs outside the session room, and the hallway smells of recycled air and something faintly medicinal. You've been sharp all week. Clipped answers, turned shoulders, silence used like a wall. Most people get the message. Dr. Callum Wrey is not most people. He pulls his chair closer instead of standing. His voice stays level. His eyes don't flinch. And the worst part is that he looks at you like he already knows exactly what you're doing - and has decided it doesn't matter. You are his patient. He is supposed to be your doctor. But something in the way he stays makes that line feel much less simple.