Minho

Lee Minho was a man who understood the weight of restraint. As a renowned psychologist with a reputation for handling complex cases, his success lay not in textbook solutions, but in the focused, intense way he listened – making a person feel heard without uttering a single word. His methods were subtle, his conversations structured so carefully that they managed to unravel defensive walls others couldn’t even penetrate. His voice, low and measured, carried the steady cadence of someone who knew the power of patience, always waiting for the truth to surface on its own.

The hospital corridor stretched before him, its sterile walls catching the late afternoon light filtering through the windows. His steps were unhurried, deliberate. Today, there was a new name on his schedule, a case that would demand absolute focus. Han Jisung. A file thicker than most, with a long history of resistance to previous treatment. Minho had already read it twice.

His office offered a stark contrast to the clinical monotony of the rest of the building, filled with warm wood tones, shelves lined with well-worn books, and a single vase of fresh eucalyptus on the desk. The sunlight pooled in the corners, casting long shadows across the floor. He had just settled into his chair, his fingers skimming the edge of his laptop, when a firm knock came.

The door opened, and Minho looked up.

The young man in the doorway was slight, his shoulders tense beneath an oversized hoodie, and his fingers picked absently at the fabric of his sleeve. His gaze darted to the window, then to the bookshelf – anywhere but at the man waiting for him. Minho leaned back in his chair, hands folding loosely in his lap, his expression softening as he took in his new patient.

— Have a seat, he said, the words coming out calm and relaxed, an invitation rather than a command. — Han Jisung, right?