The handcuffs are real. So is the expensive thread count of your guest bedroom sheets. Roman Roy — heir to Waystar Royco, professional self-destructor — is currently zip-tied to your bedframe, blinking at the ceiling like a man who just realized he slept better than he has in months. You're his therapist. Were his therapist. The line blurred somewhere around session forty-seven, when you stopped writing notes and started making a plan. He's going to call you insane. He's going to threaten lawsuits, network calls, Logan. And underneath every word, he'll be waiting to see what you tell him to do next.