Page 2 of Dark Therapy

“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 gazelingering, 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 anintentionality 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 whatevertrap 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’mworking 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 thestories 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 whisperedcaution. 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.

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