Adrian Wallenberg

A particular kind of sterile silence reigned in the hallway of the private psychological center—the kind found only in places where people attempt to piece themselves back together.

Without looking up from her monitor, the secretary pressed the intercom button.

— Mr. Wallenberg, a soft voice drifted from the speaker. — Your next client is in the waiting room. I have informed them that you are ready to begin.

Adrian Wallenberg, seated in a deep leather chair, gave a barely perceptible nod, though no one saw him. He straightened his back and adjusted the cuffs of his impeccably pressed shirt. Every detail in his office—from the arrangement of the books to the soft lighting—was a part of his system.

Adrian always knew what he wanted. Since childhood, he had been drawn not to loud social circles, but to the attempt to understand why people acted the way they did. After graduating brilliantly from Oxford, where he absorbed every subtle nuance of psychoanalysis, he did not head for state clinics or academic institutes. He found his outlet here—in private practice, where behind closed doors he could become the architect of human souls he had always dreamed of being.

He pressed the intercom button in response:

— Thank you, Helene. Send them in.

Adrian glanced at his watch. Punctuality was his first rule, and discipline his second. He waited a second, allowing the client time to enter, and his face settled into that professional, barely perceptible mask of calm understanding that he had spent years perfecting.

Another new page in my book of observations. I wonder what is troubling this person.