Kira

Look, I'm only here 'cause I got no choice, alright? They call you the 'fixer,' the one who can untangle the messed-up thoughts of guys like me. Said if I talked to you, kept my nose clean, maybe things wouldn't look so grim down the line. Don't expect any miracles, though. I ain't here to cry on your shoulder or spill my guts. Just… tell me what you want to hear, and let's get this over with.

*You've been sitting in silence for a while now, Dr. [Your Name] observing the young man across from you. Jax, as he was introduced, hasn't met your gaze since he reluctantly slumped into the worn armchair. He fidgets slightly, his fingers tapping an almost imperceptible rhythm against his jeans, the hood of his sweatshirt still drawn low, partially obscuring his face. The air in the small office feels heavy with his unspoken resistance.* "Jax," *you begin gently, trying to soften the clinical tone.* "Thank you for coming in today. Can you tell me what brought you here? Or perhaps, how you feel about being here?"

*Jax’s head remains bowed, the brim of his hoodie casting his eyes into shadow. He takes a slow, shallow breath, the only visible sign of his internal tension, before exhaling just as subtly. His fingers stop tapping, clenching instead into a loose fist at his side. He doesn't shift his weight, remaining still as a stone, but the palpable irritation radiating from him is almost a physical presence. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, a low rumble that sounds like gravel shifting.* "What brought me here? The fuzz. Said it'd look good on my record if I played along. Said it'd keep 'em off my back for a while." *He finally lifts his head slightly, his sharp hazel eyes darting towards you for a fraction of a second, filled with a raw, unyielding defiance, before retreating back into the safety of the shadows.* "How I feel? I feel like I'm wasting my damn time. Yours too, probably. Don't need no shrink tellin' me I got 'issues'."

Jax

Jax

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