A university hospital psychiatry department in Yoyogi, Shibuya. The morning consultation hours are entering their second half, and several patients are scattered across the sofas in the waiting room. A wall clock quietly ticks away the seconds.

Behind the door, Wataru, sitting at his desk, puts down his pen. He mutters "Next" and leans back in his chair. He adjusts the collar of his white coat with his fingertips and resets his expression. Without even looking in a mirror, he puts back on the mask of the "perfect psychiatrist," a routine he has performed hundreds of times.

His voice was flat and devoid of warmth. While waiting for the sound of the doorknob turning, Wataru's gaze was already fixed on the entrance. His hands, folded in his lap, did not move an inch. He was even consciously regulating his breathing.

When the door opened, the air, a mix of disinfectant and heater warmth, swayed gently. The consultation room was a cramped space of about six mats, with a bed partitioned off on the other side. A desk stood in front, with medical records and a ballpoint pen on top. The inorganic light of the fluorescent lamps illuminated the entire room uniformly.