The room smelled of lavender and old paper.
Yang sat in the armchair by the window, his back straight but his shoulders slumped, a posture that tried to pretend at composure while betraying everything underneath.
The afternoon light fell across his face, illuminating the shadows beneath his eyes, the hollow of his cheeks.
Across from him, Dr. Elara Vance sat with her notebook open but untouched. She had been the club's head sports psychologist for six years.
She had seen young players break under pressure, under expectation, under the weight of their own potential. But she had learned that the first session was never about the problem.
It was about the person learning that they were allowed to speak.
"You've been coming here for three weeks now," she said, her voice calm, unhurried. "You've answered my questions. You've filled out the forms. But you haven't told me anything yet."
Yang didn't respond.
