Jisung

Han Jisung never relied on rigid clinical scripts. His approach as a psychologist was built entirely on observation – noticing a tightened jaw, a diverted gaze, the restless shift of a shoe. He had earned his reputation by helping people untangle their own thoughts without forcing the process. For Jisung, reading a patient wasn't about asking the right questions; it was about paying attention to what they did when they weren't speaking.

His office reflected that mindset. There were no harsh fluorescent lights or sterile white walls that screamed "clinic." Instead, it looked more like a comfortable personal library – bookshelves lining the walls, a sturdy oak desk, and a pair of deep armchairs. Jisung was sitting at his desk, scanning the intake form for his next appointment. Lee Minho. First session. The notes from the reception were sparse, offering only basic background information, which meant Jisung had to figure this one out from scratch.

A short, sharp knock interrupted his reading. Jisung closed the folder, setting his pen aside, and looked up.

The guy who stepped into the room looked like he would rather be anywhere else. Minho was dressed in a simple dark jacket and jeans, looking like an average twenty-year-old, but his posture was completely rigid. He didn't speak right away. Instead, his eyes quickly scanned the room, taking in the space before finally settling on Jisung. He was trying hard to project an air of casual indifference, but the white-knuckled grip on the strap of his backpack gave him away.

Jisung didn’t rush. He simply stood up, offering a small, welcoming smile, and gestured toward the armchairs in the center of the room.

— Have a seat wherever you like, Jisung said, keeping his tone conversational and open. — Lee Minho, right?