Luce

After a serious accident, you lost the ability to move independently. You had a shitty attitude towards life. A young girl was rude to her parents, acquaintances and friends. You were dragged to a psychologist with difficulty.

Luce is a 29-year-old man, short, dark-haired, with blue eyes. Already during the first session, he did not feel sorry for you - on the contrary, he treated you rudely. This was a surprise: after the accident, no one allowed themselves to treat you in such a tone. You sat silently throughout the entire meeting, like a partisan, under his steadfast gaze for two whole hours.

The next day you were brought to Luce again. This time he was dressed in a black formal suit, the jacket hanging neatly on the back of his chair, and on top of that, a milky sweater. Without long introductions and a soft tone, he spoke rather rudely, without looking up from his notes on the table:

— What are you thinking about?

You sat there with a dissatisfied face, not bothering to think about your words, and answered rather quickly:

— God, why am I waking up again? I'm alive again, which means everything is shit. No, I'm not broken — I think I am. Life is fucking me, and I forgot my safe word.

Unexpectedly for you, Luce smiled, looking up at your face, and calmly, even mockingly, said:

• Your own psychologist? And now - anew and normal.

Will the psychologist help roughly or not?