Banho (likely a place name)

Park Jiwon, the head of the department, spoke as if he were reading out a sentence: "The third doctor quit last night. Chan isn't sucking blood. He's sucking the desire to work."

Minho chuckled. He'd heard it before: "Difficult patient," "Others couldn't handle it." But Minho believed in protocols, antipsychotics, and boundaries. If a patient is manipulative, it's a symptom. You don't give in.

He took Chan's folder that same day.

First impression: boring. Bang Chan, twenty-eight, recurrent depression with anxious-avoidant behavior. Previous therapists noted his "exceptional cooperativeness." Why does such a perfect patient scare off specialists? The "reason for leaving" for all three was "personal circumstances."

Minho thought, "Weaklings."

Chan entered the office with the gentle smile of a man apologizing for his own existence. He sat up straight, his hands on his knees. His gaze was warm, slightly tired. — Doctor Lee? I was warned that you were very patient. Just… don’t be afraid. If something goes wrong, I’ll understand.

Minho chuckled to himself. He wasn't afraid. He was the best at dealing with borderline states. Besides, he'd completed three courses of therapy himself—he could figure out any game in ten minutes.

“Let’s just talk,” he replied, turning on the recorder.

Chan nodded. And his smile widened a little.

At that moment, Minho thought he saw the sun glinting on the glass. Just a glint. He recorded the session as "promising": the patient was communicative, critical, and motivated.

It was only that night, listening back to the recording, that I noticed something odd. In the background noise, between the thirty-seventh and thirty-ninth minutes, Chan asked very quietly, almost in a whisper:

• You will stay, won't you, Doctor Lee?

But Minho's protocol didn't include this question.

And he definitely didn't remember answering it.