It was Vigdis.
She stood three feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable. She was dressed identically to yesterday—black tactical pants, fitted jacket, boots that made no sound despite the hard floor. Her pale blue eyes assessed me with the same efficient sweep.
"Dr. Kaelen," she said. No greeting. Just acknowledgment.
"Vigdis." I tried to sound composed. "I was just—"
"Exploring." She said it like a diagnosis. "Understandable. First night is often difficult."
I nodded, unsure what to say.
"Walk with me," she said, and turned without waiting for a response.
I followed.
She led me back through the East Wing and out a side door I hadn't noticed—one that opened onto a narrow path carved into the cliff face. The morning air was sharp, cold enough to make my breath visible. Below, the water lapped against black stone.
"This is the Outer Walk," Vigdis said, her voice carrying easily despite the wind. "Clients are permitted here during daylight hours. It circles the Institute. Takes approximately twenty minutes."
I pulled my sweater tighter. "Is this part of the Protocol? Mandatory exercise?"
"No. But isolation can be... difficult. Some clients find movement helps."
We walked in silence for a moment, the path widening slightly as it curved around the Institute's southern face. From this angle, I could see the full scope of the building—three stories of glass and steel, cantilevered over the cliff, defying gravity and common sense in equal measure.
"How long have you worked here?" I asked.
"Twelve years."
"So you've seen a lot of clients come through."
"Yes."
Her clipped responses made it clear she wasn't interested in small talk, but I pressed anyway. "What happened to them? After the twelve weeks?"
Vigdis stopped walking and turned to face me. Her expression was still neutral, but something in her eyes had sharpened.
"That depends," she said. "Some leave transformed. Some leave unchanged. Some..." She paused. "Some don't leave the way they expected to."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the Praxis is powerful, Dr. Kaelen. And power without control is dangerous." She tilted her head slightly. "You're a therapist. You understand boundary violations. You understand what happens when professionals become too... invested."
My stomach tightened. "Has that happened here?"
"Once." Her voice was flat. "Five years ago. A client and a Praxist violated Clause 7.3. The contract was terminated. The Praxist was dismissed. The client left immediately."
"And?" I asked curiously.
"And nothing. The methodology failed. The client resumed their patterns within six months. The Praxist..." She shrugged. "I don't know what became of him."
Him? So it had been a male Praxist, like Meric. And presumably a female client, like me. The same configuration. This suddenly created a discomfort in my chest.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.
Vigdis met my gaze directly. "Because I watched you yesterday. I saw how you looked at Mr. Solvang-Lykke. And I saw how he looked at you."
Heat rushed to my face. "He barely—"
"I've worked security for twelve years, Dr. Kaelen. I know what interested looks like. And I know what dangerous looks like." She took a step closer. "The Protocol exists for a reason. If you develop feelings for him, you need to leave. Immediately. Not for his sake—he can take care of himself. For yours."
"I'm not—" I stopped. Lying to her felt pointless. "I barely know him."
"That won't matter." Her voice softened, just slightly. "The Praxis creates intimacy faster than anything I've ever seen. By week four, you'll know him better than people you've known for years. By week eight, you'll think you're in love. The question is whether you'll remember that what you're feeling is a construct. A byproduct of the methodology."
"Is it?" I asked. "Or is that just what you tell yourselves to maintain the boundary?"
Vigdis's expression didn't change, but I thought I saw something flicker across her face.
"That," she said, "is the question every client has to answer for themselves."
She turned and continued walking. I followed, my mind racing.
By week eight, you'll think you're in love.
I was less than forty-eight hours in, and I already couldn't stop thinking about him. About the way his voice had softened when he'd said my name. About the pressure of his thumb against my wrist. About the card he'd written in his precise handwriting.
This was dangerous.
Vigdis was right.
And I wasn't going to stop.
We completed the circuit in silence. When we reached the side door again, Vigdis paused.
"Breakfast will be delivered at seven," she said. "I recommend eating. Session One requires... energy."
"Session One isn't until tomorrow," I said.
"Tomorrow night," she corrected. "Eight PM. The Subterranean Sessions Chamber."
My pulse kicked up. "I thought sessions were during the day."
"Diagnostic sessions are conducted in optimal conditions. For Mr. Solvang-Lykke, that means evening. Fewer distractions. More control over environmental variables."
Or maybe it meant darkness. Privacy. The kind of intimacy that only existed when the rest of the world was asleep.
"Where is the Subterranean Chamber?" I asked.
Vigdis's expression shifted—just barely, but enough that I noticed. "You'll be escorted when it's time. Until then, stay in the East Wing. Read your Guidelines. Rest."
She opened the door and gestured for me to enter.
I did, but before she could leave, I turned back.
"Vigdis? Has there ever been a security issue here? With client data?"
Her jaw tightened. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I just signed away every detail of my psychological history. And I'm trusting you with footage of my most vulnerable moments. I need to know it's secure."
She studied me for a long moment, then nodded slightly—as if I'd passed some test. "A client's privacy was compromised once. Files were accessed without authorization."
"By who?" I asked.
"We never determined that conclusively. The investigation..." She hesitated. "It was closed before we found the source."
"Closed? Why?"
"Because the client in question requested it. They didn't want further attention." Vigdis met my eyes directly. "Your files are secure, Dr. Kaelen. I've personally overseen the security protocols since that incident. No one accesses your data without my knowledge."
I watched her carefully—the way her shoulders stayed rigid, the precision of her word choice. Since that incident. Not "since then" or "now." She was choosing her language like someone avoiding a landmine.
"Has there been another attempt?" I asked quietly. "More recently?"
Her jaw tightened again. A pause. Too long.
"No," Vigdis said finally.
It was a lie. I didn't know how I knew, but I just did. Something in the way her gaze shifted microscopically, the way her breath pattern changed. I'd spent years reading micro-expressions in therapy sessions, cataloguing the tiny tells that revealed what people couldn't say aloud.
Someone had tried to access files again. Recently. And Vigdis was managing the threat without telling me. Well, why would she tell me anyway?
"Thank you for the walk," I said carefully.
She nodded once and disappeared down the corridor, silent as always.
I stood alone in the empty hallway, my heart pounding.
Twelve weeks suddenly felt like a very long time.
I spent the rest of the day in my suite, alternating between reading the Session Guidelines and staring out the window.
The Guidelines were thorough. Almost obsessively so. Every potential scenario was addressed: what to do if I experienced a panic attack, if I needed to use my safe word (which I was supposed to establish in Session One), if I felt physically unwell, emotionally overwhelmed, or psychologically destabilized.
The safe word was absolute. If I said it, everything stopped immediately. No questions, no negotiation. The session would end, and I would be taken to a recovery space where a medical professional would evaluate me.
The Praxis is designed to push boundaries, not violate them. Your agency is paramount. The methodology only works if you choose it continuously, in every moment.
I appreciated the emphasis on consent. It was more rigorous than anything I'd seen in my own field. But it also made me wonder: how many clients had needed their safe word? How many had broken?
And how many had wanted to?
The sun was setting when I finally closed the binder. My third meal had been delivered an hour ago—some kind of Nordic fish dish that was better than I expected—and I'd eaten mechanically, barely tasting it.
Tomorrow night. Eight PM.
Twenty-six hours from now, I would be in the Subterranean Sessions Chamber with Meric Solvang-Lykke, and everything would begin.
I picked up his card one more time.
The first rule of Praxis: You will learn that control is not power. Power is the choice to surrender it.
"Okay," I whispered to the empty room. "Show me."
The fjord, dark now and flecked with reflected starlight, offered no response.
But somewhere in this building, I knew he was preparing.
And so was I.