"How is your life, Nyrel Loyster?"
Nyrel, slouched in the leather armchair across from Marcel's polished desk, didn't hesitate with his reply. "Was fine. Until now."
His voice was dry. Not angry, not sarcastic—just tired. He didn't even bother to meet the man's eyes.
Marcel offered a patient, if slightly worn-out smile. The lines around his eyes had deepened over the past few years. He leaned back slightly in his chair, pen resting idle between his fingers. "I suppose I walked into that one."
It had been four years—four long, drawn-out years—since Nyrel first started seeing Marcel. Technically, Marcel was his psychological evaluator, a government-assigned handler tasked with 'ensuring mental stability following trauma'. In simpler words: he made sure Nyrel wasn't going to break down or become a threat after witnessing the brutal murder of his parents—and after shooting the man who did it.
Four years. An eternity for what was supposed to be temporary supervision.
