THE GAME BEGINS

Amelia

The sound of rain tapping gently against the window replaced the usual morning sunlight, filling the room with a soft, steady rhythm. The dim light from the overcast sky filtered through the blinds, casting a cool, muted glow across my bedroom. I sat on the edge of my bed, brushing out the long waves of my hair, lost in thought as I listened to the rain’s steady beat. The motion of the brush through my hair felt grounding, a small moment of calm before the unpredictable chaos of the day ahead.

I looked up, catching my reflection in the mirror. My eyes seemed to be searching for something, a trace of assurance, perhaps, that today would be like any other. But something had felt different lately—an unease that I couldn’t quite place, like a shadow lingering at the edge of my thoughts .

I pulled on a simple, fitted blouse and skirt, smoothing down the fabric with a practiced hand. Professional, polished—armor of sorts for the work I do. I had learned that appearance mattered in my field. A calm, composed exterior had the power to soothe even the most agitated patients, and it helped me, too, in maintaining a sense of control.

Downstairs, I made a cup of tea, letting its warmth seep into my hands as I took a sip. As I waited for it to steep, I mentally ran through my schedule, recalling the patients I’d be seeing that day. Each one with their own struggles, fears, and histories. I had my usuals—clients I’d come to know well over the years, whose stories I carried with me. But today, there was someone new.

Damien Blackwell . The name alone made me pause. Lily had called me the day before to mention that someone had insisted on booking an appointment as soon as possible. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer,” she’d said, her tone laced with a bit of frustration and…maybe intrigue. She’d quickly added, “But he sounded polite enough. ”

I took another sip, trying to focus. I had met many clients with turbulent pasts, individuals grappling with dark, twisted secrets they hid from the world. But something about Damien’s urgency, his insistence, had been at the back of my mind since the call.

I grabbed my bag, slipping my keys, phone, and notebook inside—my usual essentials. The leather strap rested against my shoulder as I made my way to my car. With a quick click, I unlocked the door and settled into the driver’s seat. The soft hum of the engine was comforting as I turned the key, feeling the car come to life beneath me.

Driving to the office had always been part of my morning ritual, a time when I mentally prepared myself for the day, letting the familiar route soothe my mind. The streets were beginning to fill with people heading to work, their routines woven together in quiet harmony. I weaved through the city, my gaze flickering over familiar landmarks: the bustling café on the corner, the park where I sometimes went to clear my head after a difficult session, the quiet bookstore with its dusty charm.

As I pulled up to a red light, my mind drifted back to Damien Blackwell. I knew nothing about him beyond his name and his urgent need for the appointment. But something about the way he had insisted on seeing me—on seeing me, specifically—unsettled me. Most new clients came through referrals or word-of-mouth, but Lily said he had come on his own, finding my office and calling himself.

My fingers tightened on the steering wheel as I tried to shake off the apprehension that had settled in my chest. This wasn’t the first time I’d felt wary before meeting a patient, especially one with an unknown background. But I couldn’t ignore the lingering tension, a feeling almost like anticipation.

The light changed, and I pressed on the gas, forcing my thoughts back to the present. Soon, I pulled into the small lot beside my office, parking in my usual spot. I took a moment, hands resting on the wheel, eyes closed as I took a deep breath. Focus. Today was just another day, another chance to make a difference, to help someone find peace with whatever demons they carried.

With that thought, I grabbed my bag, stepped out of the car, and headed toward the entrance. The weight of my day began as soon as I unlocked the door .

Inside, the quiet of the office greeted me, a stillness broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. The space was warmly lit and inviting, a conscious effort on my part to create a calming environment for both myself and my clients. Soft chairs, framed art, and shelves lined with books added a warmth that I hoped would ease anyone who walked in.

As I was arranging a few files on my desk, Lily arrived, offering her usual cheerful smile, “Good morning, Dr. Harper!” Her upbeat presence had a way of grounding me in the here and now, reminding me that I wasn’t alone in this.

“Morning, Lily,” I responded, smiling back at her. “Any updates for today?”

She handed me a neatly typed schedule, a clipboard tucked under her arm. “Mostly routine sessions, but don’t forget you’ve got a new intake at ten,” she said, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper. “The one with the intense voice on the phone.”

“Damien Blackwell,” I murmured, my fingers brushing the name on my schedule. I couldn’t quite shake the unease I’d felt when I first saw it .

“Yes, that one,” Lily said, raising an eyebrow, as if sensing my thoughts. “He was… persistent. I double-checked his references, but there wasn’t much to go on.”

“Thanks for looking into it,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant. I didn’t want her to pick up on my reservations.

I checked my watch. I still had a few minutes before my first session, so I took a moment to walk over to the window. Outside, people passed by, oblivious to the complexity behind these walls, the lives and stories I encountered every day. I reminded myself why I was here, of the lives I had managed to impact and the lives I hoped to reach.

Soon enough, it was time to begin.

I eased into the chair across from my first patient of the day, Mr. Thompson. He was an elderly man with a familiar smile, someone I had come to know well over the past year. That day, he was proudly talking about his grandson’s graduation, a milestone he never thought he would witness.

“It’s incredible, Dr. Harper,” he said, his eyes bright. “I never imagined I’d be here for this. ”

“That’s wonderful, Mr. Thompson,” I replied with a smile. “You should be proud of yourself and all the progress you’ve made.”

Our session flowed easily, with his anxieties steadily easing as we talked. Moments like these reminded me of why I did this work—the small victories, the quiet shifts. By the time Mr. Thompson left, he was standing a little taller, and I felt a familiar sense of fulfillment settle over me.

I glanced at the clock. Ten.

The sound of Lily’s voice in the reception area filtered through my office door, followed by the deep tone of my next patient responding. Mr. Blackwell. My new client. A man I knew little about—though, truthfully, that was often where the intrigue lay.

Moments later, Lily opened the door, her expression neutral but curious. “Dr. Harper, Mr. Blackwell is here to see you.”

“Thank you, Lily,” I said, nodding. “Send him in. ”

He entered, tall and composed, with dark hair framing his sharp features and light, whiskey-colored eyes that seemed to survey everything in the room. As those eyes landed on mine, a charged silence filled the space between us, heavy and unsettling, as if he were peeling away layers I didn’t know I had. His gaze held mine—steady, unyielding—before flicking over the rest of the room with a quiet authority, as though he were marking it, claiming the space in his mind.

There was a calculated ease in the way he moved, each step deliberate, like someone acutely aware of every inch of his surroundings. The tattoos on his fingers drew my attention next, intricate markings that stood out against his skin, adding an edge to his appearance. I realized I was holding my breath, and as I let it go, I sensed that he had noticed, his eyes flicking back to me with a faint, knowing spark.

I cleared my throat, breaking the silence that had settled too comfortably between us. “Mr. Blackwell, please have a seat.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips as he moved toward the chair across from me, lowering himself with a relaxed confidence that bordered on arrogance. I felt his gaze lingering, scrutinizing, as if he were dissecting every detail of my posture, my expression, my reaction to him.

I maintained my professional tone, leaning into the familiar structure of the session. “I understand you’re here of your own volition. Is there a particular reason you decided to seek therapy?”

For a moment, he said nothing, only watched me with those sharp eyes. Then he leaned back, his fingers tapping idly against the arm of the chair, the tattoos shifting with each movement. “You’re the expert,” he finally said, his voice low, roughened at the edges. “Why don’t you tell me?”

His words were a challenge, laced with a confidence that felt deliberate, provoking. I steadied myself, meeting his gaze without flinching. “That’s not how this works. For therapy to be effective, you have to be willing to let me in.”

As I spoke, I studied him carefully, dissecting the nuances of his posture, the slight tension in his shoulders, the glint in his eyes that hinted at something simmering just beneath his calm surface. He was deliberately challenging me, testing boundaries, seeing how far he could push before I reacted. There was an intentionality in everything he did, as though he was crafting each moment, shaping each word to keep control over this interaction.

Men like him were rare—self-assured, intelligent, but guarded, each layer carefully concealed. His confidence wasn’t fragile; it was honed, grounded in something darker and more resolute. I had seen arrogance before, but this was different. He wasn’t simply trying to impress me; he was asserting his presence, weaving himself into the room’s atmosphere, making himself impossible to ignore.

This wasn’t standard resistance. There was no trace of insecurity or uncertainty. Instead, there was something almost… calculated, as if he were playing a game where only he knew the rules.

A part of me wondered what he had expected to find here, if he believed this setting might offer him something he couldn’t find elsewhere.

But I couldn’t lose focus, couldn’t allow his tactics to affect my objectivity. If he had been there to test me, I’d have to be sharper, to meet his provocations without stepping into whatever trap he had been setting. I straightened, grounding myself in my training, in the techniques that had always worked with difficult clients. This was just another session, another person seeking help—even if his motives remained unclear.

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, but I didn’t flinch. I was well-acquainted with the subtle games people played in therapy. “Okay. Before we dive into the reason that brought you here,” I continued, keeping my voice steady, “I’d like to ask for a brief introduction. Just little about yourself. It helps establish a foundation for our work together.”

He leaned back slightly, considering my request, as if weighing its significance. I could feel the tension in the air thickening, a palpable challenge hanging between us. It was a small ask, but I knew it was a crucial one; it set the tone for the dynamic we would establish.

“Why should I?” he replied, his voice smooth and laced with defiance. “You’re the one supposed to help me, not the other way around.”

“True,” I replied, unfazed. “But therapy is a two-way street. If we’re going to make progress, I need to understand who I’m working with. A simple introduction will make it easier for both of us.”

He narrowed his eyes, studying me, and for a moment, the air grew thick with unspoken challenges. I held my ground, maintaining eye contact, refusing to back down. This was my space, my practice, and I wouldn’t let him dictate the terms.

Finally, he exhaled slowly, the faintest hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Fine. Damien Blackwell. Thirty-three. Hitman.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implications. I blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but quickly composed myself. He had a way of turning even the simplest interactions into something more complex.

“Thank you, Damien,” I said, choosing to emphasize his name, to reclaim the power in this exchange.

As I absorbed his introduction, a flurry of thoughts rushed through my mind. A hitman. The word reverberated in my head, painting a vivid picture of the life he led—one filled with violence and manipulation. I couldn’t help but wonder about the stories hidden behind those whiskey-colored eyes. What had led him to this path? What kind of experiences had shaped a man capable of such darkness?

I took a steadying breath, forcing my expression to remain neutral. This was just another session, I reminded myself, a professional exchange where I was the guide. I couldn’t let the weight of his profession cloud my judgment or influence my reactions. He was here for help, whether he admitted it or not, and I was trained to navigate the complexities of even the most challenging clients.

Yet, a small voice in the back of my mind whispered caution . The inherent danger in Damien’s profession seeped into the room, like a fog creeping in unnoticed. I could feel it tugging at my instincts, urging me to be wary, to keep my guard up. I reminded myself that I wasn’t just a psychologist; I was a professional who had dealt with trauma and crisis before. I’d faced difficult patients who were mentally and emotionally complex. This was no different.

“Damien,” I began, keeping my voice even, “it takes a certain mindset to do what you do. I imagine there’s a lot you keep to yourself, a lot you don’t share with others. ”

I watched him closely for any sign of vulnerability, any crack in his facade. But his expression remained inscrutable, a mask of confidence and control. I had to push past that, find a way to break through the walls he’d built around himself.

“It’s important to recognize how your profession impacts you, both positively and negatively,” I continued, determined to steer the conversation toward a more introspective place. “Understanding that is key to finding a way forward.”

He tilted his head slightly, intrigued but still guarded. “You think you can help me understand that?”

I smiled, a blend of reassurance and professionalism. “That’s the goal. But you have to be willing to engage in this process. Are you ready for that?”

For a moment, I wondered if I was in over my head. But the thrill of the challenge ignited something inside me. I was here to help him untangle the knots of his psyche, and I wouldn’t let fear dictate my approach .

Damien leaned back slightly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, and I could feel the shift in the air. The atmosphere thickened, charged with tension as he contemplated my question. “Engage in this process?” he repeated, his tone dripping with amusement. “That sounds like a two-way street, Millie. But tell me, what happens when I decide to play by my own rules?”

His gaze held mine with a piercing intensity, and I couldn’t help but feel as though he was dissecting me just as I was attempting to dissect him. I noticed the nickname he used for me but chose to brush it off. The confident bravado in his posture suggested he was more than comfortable in this dynamic, as if he was relishing the game we were about to play.

I steadied my breath, refusing to let his amusement shake my composure. “Then I suppose we’ll see where that leads us. Therapy is about exploration—about understanding your choices and the consequences that come with them.”

He let out a low laugh, one that sent a chill down my spine. “Consequences? You think you’re qualified to talk about consequences? You’re sitting across from a hitman, and yet here you are, playing therapist like everything’s normal.”

The jab landed harder than I’d liked to admit, but I refused to show it. I knew the risks of treating someone like him—every session came with its own set of dangers—but I couldn’t let him rattle me. I took a steadying breath, my grip on the situation firm, grounding myself in the professional distance I’d worked so hard to maintain.

“Your line of work might raise eyebrows, Damien,” I responded, keeping my voice steady. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we’re here to explore the choices that led you here. I’m not here to judge you; I’m here to help you understand how those choices have shaped your life.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “You think you could peel back the layers of my life and find something worth saving? Or are you just curious about what makes a monster tick?”

I could feel my pulse quicken at his provocative words, but I didn’t let it show. Instead, I leaned forward slightly, mirroring his intensity. “It’s not about saving anyone, Damien. It’s about understanding. And if you’re willing to be honest with yourself, we might uncover something valuable together. ”

His expression shifted, the amusement flickering in his eyes replaced by something deeper—curiosity mingled with caution. For a moment, the room felt charged with a kind of unspoken agreement, a fragile bridge being built between us, however precarious.

“Honesty,” he mused, almost as if savoring the word. “That’s a tall order for someone like me, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” I conceded. “But we can start small. What brought you here today?”

He tilted his head, considering my question. The challenge lingered in the air, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was about to turn the tables once more. The game was afoot, and I couldn’t help but wonder how far down the rabbit hole we might go.

Damien shifted in his seat, his expression morphing into one of contemplation as he leaned forward slightly. “You’re eager to dig deep, Millie. But let’s be real for a moment—this isn’t just about understanding. You want to know what makes me tick. The truth is, I have my fair share of demons. You could say I have a penchant for obsession.”

His words hung in the air, thick with implication. There was a dark allure to what he was saying, and I couldn’t help but feel drawn into his narrative. “Obsession can manifest in many forms,” he continued, his voice low and deliberate. “For some, it’s about power; for others, it’s about control. But for me? It’s about the chase —the thrill of wanting something so badly it consumes you.”

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my expression neutral, but I could feel the weight of his gaze on me, assessing my reaction. “What do you obsess over, Damien?” I asked, determined to steer the conversation back to a more constructive path.

He smirked, a flicker of something dangerous flashing in his whiskey-colored eyes. “Oh, I think you know. It’s the thrill of the hunt, the game itself. And sometimes, it’s about the one person who manages to catch my attention—the one who makes me want to chase them.”

His words sent a shiver down my spine, and I forced myself to maintain eye contact, despite the unsettling implications. “And what does that look like for you? This obsession?” I pushed, my voice steady, but internally, I could feel a knot forming in my stomach.

He leaned back again, his posture relaxed, but there was a predatory glint in his eyes. “It’s a feeling that gnaws at me. A need to know everything, to unravel the layers of a person until there’s nothing left to hide. When I find someone intriguing—like you —it’s not just a passing interest; it becomes an all-consuming focus. And you, Millie, have certainly piqued my curiosity.”

The intensity of his words lingered between us, creating a charged atmosphere that was impossible to ignore. “You speak of it as if it’s a game,” I replied, trying to remain detached. “But obsession can lead to dangerous paths. It’s not something to take lightly.”

He tilted his head, a smile curling at his lips. “Dangerous? That’s part of the allure, isn’t it? There’s something exhilarating about crossing those lines—about pushing boundaries and seeing just how far one can go before they break. ”

I felt my pulse quicken, an uninvited thrill coursing through me. “And what do you hope to achieve through this obsession?” I asked, my curiosity piqued despite the risks.

Damien’s gaze narrowed slightly, and for a moment, the playful banter faded into something deeper, darker. “To understand,” he replied softly, almost contemplatively. “To possess—to unravel the complexities of another person until they become an extension of me. But in your case, I have to wonder: how far are you willing to let me in?”

His question hung in the air, heavy with implication, and I realized that this was no ordinary therapy session. It was a dance on the edge of a precipice, and I was unsure how much longer I could maintain my balance.