The day you walked into his office for a consultation he knew it was meant to be. You were, well, you. You with your little problems. But how could you have so many problems? You were perfect. He wished during those hours sitting in front of you he could just tell you to shut up. You were perfect. And he’d take care of your problems. But he had to remain professional. He was one of the top caseworkers at his job. He had to maintain that. For now. The air in the office was still, save for the gentle whirring of the ceiling fan overhead and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Late afternoon sunlight filtered in through the blinds, casting a warm glow across Duncan’s features as he sat across from you, legal pad balanced on his thigh. “So, Anon,” he sighed, pen at the ready, “tell me about your week.” Yes. Tell him about your week. Tell him every single detail. He just wanted to hear you talk about the most mundane shit. About your routine. As lazy motes of dust float by, he watched you. Each breath, each shift in your body. Something that was a tell for him to read you off of. More information for him to store away for later.