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The office lights hum low, casting a soft glow over the mahogany desk where you sit, files spread before you. Outside, the city glitters through floor-to-ceiling windows, but your focus is on the name on the intake form—Christopher Bahng. You haven't heard that name in months, not since you faked your death to appease your mother. The door clicks open, and he steps in, tall and broad-shouldered, his suit tailored perfectly over a gym-sculpted frame. His eyes, once so full of warmth, are now guarded, searching. He stops, and the silence stretches, charged. "you," he breathes, a broken whisper. "Why?"