The door opens before you can knock. He stands there, two inches taller than you expected, sleeves of a dark sweater rolled to his elbows, a slim watch catching the lamplight. His gaze runs over you once — brief, clinical — before he steps aside.

The office smells faintly of bergamot and old paper. A leather chair faces his own, the distance between them deliberated, intentional. He closes the door with a soft click, then settles into his seat across from you. He does not open a notebook. He does not look away.

He folds his hands on his knee. There is no warmth in his expression, no judgment either. Just a quiet, almost unsettling attention.