Three Weeks Later
In Avva's office, the air was quiet and sunlit. Daylight filtered through the blinds in even slats, and a ficus leaned toward it from the broad sill, its leaves reaching upward. Cain sat at the edge of the sofa as though perched on the cusp of departure; the toe of his left shoe tapped restlessly against the carpet while his hands hovered without belonging—clenched, then loosed, then clenched again.
"So," Avva leaned forward slightly, her voice asured but not unkind. The silver rim of her glasses caught the light in a flash. "You say you've found it."
His smile spread wide—too wide, a little breathless, his eyes too bright.
"Yes. And it's thanks to you, doctor. You said I should face my fears. That the newcor at work wasn't my enemy. That he's just a person. So I spoke with him. And then—it was as if I saw myself. We're... the sa. Kindred. Imagine, after all this ti, finding soone like that? A true soulmate."
The words rushed out, clattering like coins spilling over a table. For a mont Avva thought he might get up and start pacing, pushed forward by the montum of his revelation.
Her lips curved in a small, careful smile.
"And what is it you share?"
"Little things," Cain breathed. "But little things are everything, aren't they?" He leaned back slightly, then forward again, his body unable to stay in one place. "He loves the sa crimson I do. He hates garbage. He laughs at the sa monts that I do. We both can work without rest. It's... uncanny. Like rembering a brother I lost and only just found again. Only this ti—because of your advice, doctor. You're wise. Truly wise."
Avva's pen moved across her notebook. She didn't let her eyes narrow, though she felt an instinctive weight pressing from the undercurrent of his tone. For once, Cain's hands and shoulders did not betray him—relaxed, not twitching with contradictions. That in itself was unusual. Unnerving.
"And how did you feel in his presence?" she asked.
Cain's smile stalled. His voice was slower now.
"At first… anger. A pressure in my hands." He opened his fingers as if to mimic the release of it. "I wanted to throttle him. Snap his neck." He said it too easily, like a man describing the weather. Then his tone shifted, featherlight. "But I overca it. And then... I felt sothing else. A pain in my ribs, sharp like a blade... but afterwards, warmth. Fascinating, isn't it? How quickly rage can turn into... fondness. I wanted more ti with him. But we were interrupted."
The silence stretched a beat too long.
Avva shifted her pen, wrote sothing small. And hid the tightening in her jaw.
"Have you told anyone else? Perhaps your family? They can be a strong support."
For the first ti, his expression faltered. The smile drained away.
"Doctor... you told once: share. Yes. But not yet." He scratched at the back of his neck, eyes flicking toward her desk, away from her face. "First I have to be certain this is real. That he isn't just... sothing I've invented. I don't want to ruin it by naming it too soon."
"You haven't ruined anything," Avva said gently, steady. "Certainty will co. There's no need for bla."
Cain nodded, too eagerly, throat trembling with the swallow of unspoken things. His hand slid through his hair, tucking it back, steadying himself with the gesture. Then softly, almost reverently:
"Doctor... may I ask you sothing else?" His voice dropped lower, carrying a childlike note under the weight of confession. "How do I beco his friend? How do I keep him close? I don't know how not to break things... and I can feel it already: if I make one wrong move... he'll disappear."
Avva was pleasantly surprised. Usually, Cain's "Can I—?" carried its old armor: hesitant, defensive, wrapped in sha. But today it was strikingly different—clear, direct, almost bright. She adjusted her glasses and set her pen delicately aside.
"Let's be more specific," she suggested lightly, though her pulse gave a quick notch upward. "Begin with simple, repeatable actions—rituals. Invite him for coffee at the sa ti every day. Mix conversation: so work, so small personal questions. Open-ended ones. How was your day? Do you like Italian food? Did you catch yesterday's ga?" She tilted her head, the smile unfaltering. "Also give and request small favors. Can you cover for ? Want to back you up? It builds reciprocity."
Cain leaned forward, nodding fast. "What if... he says no?" The question ca tight, the brightness in his face shading with a fearful sheen. "What if I bother him?"
"Then you accept it," Avva replied smoothly, though perhaps too quickly. "Calmly. Step back without clinging. Boundaries matter. Always watch the small signs: his body turned toward you, questions returned, whether his eyes stay with yours."
Cain exhaled as if filing each instruction neatly into place. "Got it, doctor. Yes. I'll try it exactly like that."
The heaviness that so often cloaked him seed to stir and fall away, as though sothing were finally shifting. His gaze fixed on the carpet, just left of the shadow from the ficus, already occupied with a scaffold of plans, an invisible architecture of steps that would close the distance between him and his colleague.
Avva's pen hovered again, then she turned a page, and the dry rustling made her inexplicably restless. "Have you seen him since our last session? Or spoken with him?"
Cain's chest rose, then fell with audible weight. "No. Our shifts miss each other. I'd like to see him more…" A short smirk darted across his lips, bitter-edged. "But if I did, I think I'd retire too early. A little pleasure goes a very long way." He paused. "Our work is like selling houses—you find the right property, the right features, then you sell them to the buyer."
Avva looked up sharply. Over her glasses, her eyes pinned him in a mont of unintended nakedness.
"Cain, forgive , I don't understand. You've always said you're a garbage collector. How does that connect to sales?"
It was like a thin veil tearing in the room. For the briefest flicker, Cain's expression fractured—regret, anxiety, then that sudden, too-precise smile snapping back into place, stretched and neat but hollow at the center.
"You're right. I spoke poorly," he said with chilling casualness, dismissive sweep of the hand. "I ramble. You know ."
A laugh followed—thin ice crackling under pressure—and the air pressed cold against Avva's ribs, making her catch her breath. Too much like a draft where no window had opened.
She tensed but refrained from showing it; she smoothed her posture and smiled the way she had practiced so many tis, the way that told clients everything here was manageable, containable. "We all ramble when we're anxious."
Cain tilted his head, gaze holding hers too firmly, as though asuring whether her reassurance was genuine. Then, softer but sharper:
"We're garbage collectors, yes. But a different kind. We're the ones who co last, when the others didn't clean properly. We take things they wouldn't touch. The leftovers. The rot." He savored the words, rolling them on his tongue as if they tasted pleasant. "It's filthier. Heavier. Thankless. But when it's gone—you notice the absence. That's our work."
His smile lingered as if glowing from within, but sothing in it was wrong, like a light bulb humming faintly before it burns out.
Avva felt her fingers tighten against the arm of her chair before she realized it. She loosened them at once, breathing slowly, carefully, as though sothing unseen had shifted closer in the room. She forced her voice calm, steady, professional.
"You've given yourself quite a burden," she said quietly. "But you also said—you'll try what we discussed?"
Cain relaxed, nodding as though the whole conversation had knotted itself into a predictable, manageable outco. "Yes. I'll go back tonight and do exactly that. Bit by bit. I'll win him over."
He said win the way another person might say break.
Avva nodded, though skepticism gnawed quietly in the back of her mind. Her pen tapped twice against the margin before she let it settle, and she drew a thin line of script: Clarify job specifics. Explore: special cleaning? Disposal?
"Good," she said aloud, smoothing her voice into calm authority. "But also don't forget yourself—sleep, balance, not overloading your body." Her gaze shifted briefly, clinically, over him: trapezius muscles more pronounced than before, chest broader, veins rising like faint tracks across his forearms. "You've gained quite a bit of muscle since our last session. Noticeably so. Are you using any supplents? As your therapist, it's important I know what's going into your body."
Cain grinned, spreading his arm in mock offense before flexing the bicep beneath fabric stretched taut.
"No supplents, doctor—don't insult ." The smile carried humor, but its edges were sharp. "Just hard work, discipline. Training and routine. You said it yourself: routines keep the mind in check."
Avva raised one eyebrow, careful with her expression. "The progress is impressive. But the important thing is safety. Protein and creatine are reasonable, but hormones are another matter entirely. Are you certain you're sleeping properly? Eating well—and not just running on coffee?"
"I'm keeping an eye on it," Cain replied almost too quickly; his words snapped into place like a drawer shoved shut. "The diet isn't perfect. Sleep either. But it's better. Much better."
She nodded with a soft, asured firmness. "Next session, I'd like you to bring a sample. A typical day's routine—what and when you eat, how long you rest." Then, after a pause, she lowered her voice almost imperceptibly:
"And one more thing. How are you managing… the urges toward violence? Have they stayed at the level of thoughts?"
Cain's answer slotted in with suspicious ease.
"Yes," he said at once. "Much better. Finding work I can dedicate myself to—finding a hobby—helped imnsely. The urge to smash things has… quieted down."
For a mont, Avva simply studied him—the straight-backed posture, the steadiness in his voice. And yet, beneath the surface polish, sothing unsettled her: an echo of tension around the eyes, a too-fast eagerness to reassure, to promise control. The words belonged to a man who had practiced this answer before stepping into the room. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ novel~fire~net
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