Drogo glared at Karen.
Should he raise his voice? No… That’s too easy.
Instead, he stood there, staring at her with a kind of restraint that looked more dangerous. His hands were braced against the edge of the desk, shoulders tight, and his jaw locked so firmly that a faint muscle ticked near his temple.
“What,” he repeated, quieter now, “do you think you were doing in my session?”
Karen did not uncross her legs. She leaned back slightly, examining him as if he were the one under observation.
“Helping.” Her voice was unwavering.
“You were destabilizing a patient.”
“She was already destabilized,” Karen replied coolly. “I just offered a solution you refuse to consider.”
He let out a sharp breath through his nose, something between disbelief and contained fury. “You call telling a fragile teenage girl to reinvent herself survival advice?”
“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation.
“For God’s sake! That girl is struggling with identity distortion, social anxiety, chronic shame,” he said, stepping closer now, his voice darkening. “She does not need to be taught that her worth depends on packaging.”
Karen finally stood.
The gold fabric caught the light as she moved, stepping toward him to close the space he had created.
“You’re trying to build her confidence in a world that eats confidence for breakfast,” she said, her tone sharper now. “You think telling her she’s enough will magically stop them from laughing?”
“And you think teaching her to perform will?” His control was slipping visibly.
Karen tutted. “I think giving her tools is better than giving her breathing exercises.”
That hit him.
His eyes darkened. “You reduced her to a product.”
“And you reduced her to a case study.”
Drogo took a pause, a moment to recalibrate his tone without lashing out… yet.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Karen then took another step, deliberately invading his space. “Dr. Vetter, you sit there pretending the world is gentle if we process it long enough. Well, it isn’t. It responds to presentation.”
“And you,” he said, his voice tightening, “are projecting.”
Her eyes slitted. “Projecting what?”
“That survival means self-erasure dressed as power.”
Something in her expression shifted. Barely.
“And you don’t get to weaponize your damage inside my office.”
That did it.
Karen’s left eye twitched as she pushed past him. He caught her by the arm.
His hand wrapped tightly around her wounded arm, which was splinted and strapped to her neck.
The instinctive action, clouded by his anger, immediately resolved at the realization of the injured site he was grasping. Drogo paused.
His fingers forgot to loosen from her bandaged gunshot arm. But that wasn’t all that stilled his nerves.
His eyes shifted to hers. She stared back at him, calm and steady.
He expected her to flinch.
To inhale sharply.
Or even yelp out.
But she didn’t.
Not a single shift in her expression.
Her face remained steady, eyes locked onto his with something almost curious. Like she didn’t even realize what was running through his head yet.
He loosened his grip instantly, fear cutting through the anger as quickly as it had flared.
“I—”
He stepped back.
“Does it hurt?” The question came out before he could stop it.
Karen thought for a moment. “What hurt? Oh!”
She glanced down at his hand still hovering near her arm, then back at him. “Oh, that?… Nah.”
She didn’t even notice?!
His eyes flicked to the splint again.
“That’s not possible.”
“That gun wound is just two days old.”
“Aww, you even kept count.” She tilted her head slightly. “Well… maybe you didn’t grab that hard.”
“I know how hard I grabbed.”
She rolled her shoulder casually, as if testing something that did not respond. “I didn’t feel it.”
And that unsettled him more than if she had screamed.
The anger that had been burning through him shifted into something colder and heavier.
“You should have felt that,” Drogo said quietly.
“Maybe I’m not as weak as you thought.” She shrugged with a grin. “Or maybe I’ve felt worse.”
The words were delivered playfully, almost playfully, but they did not land that way.
Something tightened in his chest.
He was staring at a girl who did not react to pain in places that should have screamed.
His voice lowered again, lacking the former sharp argumentative tone.
“What happened to you, Ms. Benjamin?”
Her expression immediately changed.
“Hey!” Karen’s tone deepened. “Don’t do that,” she said curtly. “Don’t turn this into one of your sessions.”
“You walked into one.”
“And you grabbed me.”
Silence.
Drogo’s tongue itched with words he knew he shouldn’t be asking. She’s not his patient. He had to remind himself before taking in a deep breath.
“Ms. Benjamin…” He exhaled slowly, forcing control back into his body. “You interfered with a vulnerable patient.”
“And you interfered with reality.”
They stood there again, the tension still thick but altered now. It felt like something else had entered the room.
He finally looked at her splinted arm once more, then let out an exasperated sigh. “Just… don’t interfere with my session again, Ms. Benjamin. Especially not with patients I am making gradual progress with.”
Before she could retort against his train of thought, her gaze met his back as he walked out of the office without another word.
Karen scoffed. “Softie.” She rolled her eyes.