I couldn't go home after that session.
I sat in my office for two hours after Zachary left, staring at my notes, replaying every word he'd said. Every question he'd asked. Every boundary he'd crossed.
Every truth he'd spoken that I didn't want to acknowledge.
By the time I finally left, it was after 6 PM. The bus ride home took forty minutes, and I spent every second of it thinking about him.
About his offer to save my father.
About his logic that made terrifying sense.
About the way he'd looked at me when he said I was smart enough to become a monster.
My apartment was exactly as depressing as I'd left it that morning. The radiator was broken again, making the place freezing despite it being March. My neighbors were fighting through the thin walls, their voices carrying clearly into my studio. Something about money. It was always about money.
I dropped my bag on the kitchen counter and stood in the middle of my cramped space, looking around at my life.
This was what being good had gotten me. This was what ethics and principles and doing everything right had earned. A studio apartment with broken heating, neighbors I could hear breathing, and a view of a brick wall.
I thought about Zachary's penthouse office. About the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire city. About the expensive art, the perfect furniture, the space that screamed power and success.
He'd built that. From nothing. Just like me, he'd come from nowhere and built an empire.
Except he'd actually succeeded. And I was freezing in a studio apartment, drowning in debt, watching my father die.
I made instant ramen for dinner because it was all I could afford. Ate it standing at my counter because I didn't have a table. Tried not to think about Zachary's offer.
Failed completely.
"I could make a call. Get him approved. All you have to do is ask."
One phone call. That's all it would take. One phone call from a sociopath who'd researched every detail of my life, who knew exactly how to manipulate me, who'd nearly killed a man and called it practical.
One phone call and my father could live.
What was one phone call worth?
I pulled out my laptop, telling myself I was going to review my session notes. Write up my clinical observations. Do my job.
Instead, I googled Zachary Hale.
I'd already done this. Had spent hours researching him before our first session. But now I was looking for something different. Not the criminal, not the sociopath. The man. The empire builder. The self-made billionaire who'd started with nothing.
Like me.
I found an article from Forbes, dated three years ago. "The Rise of Zachary Hale: How a Princeton Dropout Built an Eight-Billion-Dollar Empire."
I read it twice.
Zachary had grown up middle-class. Not poor like me, but not wealthy either. His parents were teachers. They'd saved for years to send him to Princeton, been devastated when he dropped out after two years.
But Zachary had seen an opportunity. Had built his first company in his dorm room, sold it for fifty million at age twenty-three, and never looked back.
The article quoted him: "Most people are limited by their emotional attachments. They care what others think. They feel guilty about ruthless decisions. I don't have those limitations. That's not a weakness. It's an advantage."
I stared at that quote for a long time.
Then I kept reading. Found another interview, this one from TechCrunch. They'd asked him about his reputation for aggressive business tactics.
"Empathy is an evolutionary weakness," Zachary had said. "It clouds judgment. It makes people predictable, manipulable, weak. The future belongs to those who can think past it. To those who can see the world as it actually is, not as we wish it were."
I should have been disturbed. Should have seen this as confirmation of his diagnosis, evidence of his pathology.
Instead, I was mesmerized.
Because wasn't he right? Hadn't empathy made me weak? Hadn't my principles kept me powerless? Hadn't caring about ethics and morality and doing the right thing left me with nothing?
I found more articles. More interviews. More evidence of Zachary's philosophy, his worldview, his complete rejection of emotional limitations.
And with every article, every quote, every glimpse into how he thought, I felt something shifting inside me.
Not horror. Not disgust.
Curiosity.
It was 2 AM when my laptop dinged with an email notification.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Insomnia
Time: 2:14 AM
I opened it before I could think better of it.
"Couldn't sleep. Still thinking about our conversation today. About your articles, your theories, the way your mind works. I found your other publications tonight. The ones in obscure journals that no one reads. The 2019 piece in the Journal of Forensic Psychology about moral flexibility in crisis situations. The 2021 article about how rigid ethical frameworks prevent effective treatment. You're brilliant, Nina. Truly brilliant. And you're wasted in that cramped office, treating court-mandated criminals who will never change. You deserve so much more than what you have. May I call you Nina? Or should I maintain the pretense of professional distance while we both know this stopped being normal therapy the moment we met? —Z"
I stared at the email, my heart pounding.
He was awake at 2 AM thinking about me. About my work. About articles I'd published in journals so obscure I'd forgotten about them myself.
He'd called me Nina. Not Dr. Reeves. Not even "Dr. Reeves" with irony. Just Nina.
He'd crossed the boundary first.
I should report this. Should document the inappropriate contact, the boundary violations, the manipulation.
Instead, I read the email again. And again. And again.
Analyzing every word. Every phrase. Every implication.
He thought I was brilliant. Thought I was wasted. Thought I deserved more.
And he was right.
I did deserve more.
I opened a reply email. Typed: "Mr. Hale, this email is inappropriate. Please limit our contact to scheduled sessions and maintain professional boundaries. Any further violations will be reported to the court liaison. —Dr. Nina Reeves"
I read it over. It was perfect. Professional. Firm. Appropriate.
I deleted it.
Typed again: "Zachary, I appreciate your interest in my work, but we need to maintain appropriate boundaries. This kind of contact outside sessions is not acceptable. Please respect the therapeutic relationship. —Nina"
Better. Still professional but acknowledging his use of my first name without completely shutting it down.
I deleted that too.
Typed a third version: "I can't respond to this. See you next week. Please maintain appropriate boundaries."
Stared at it for five minutes.
Deleted it.
My fingers moved before my brain could stop them: "See you next week, Zachary. —Nina"
I hit send before I could reconsider.
Immediately regretted it. What had I just done? I'd acknowledged his boundary violation. Encouraged it. Participated in it.
I'd called him Zachary.
I'd signed it Nina.
I was about to close my laptop when his response arrived. Instantly. Like he'd been waiting.
"I'll count the hours. —Z"
I stared at those four words until my vision blurred.
He'd been waiting for my response. At 2 AM. Had sent that email knowing I'd be awake, knowing I'd be thinking about him, knowing I wouldn't be able to resist responding.
He'd calculated this. Planned it. Manipulated it perfectly.
And I'd fallen for it exactly as he'd known I would.
I should have been angry. Should have felt violated, manipulated, used.
Instead, I felt thrilled. Alive. Seen in a way I'd never been seen before.
Someone was thinking about me at 2 AM. Someone brilliant and successful and powerful was lying awake thinking about my work, my mind, my potential.
And not just someone. Zachary Hale. Eight-billion-dollar empire Zachary Hale. Self-made genius Zachary Hale. Diagnosed sociopath who'd nearly killed a man Zachary Hale.
I closed my laptop and tried to sleep.
Failed completely.
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard his voice. "You're smart enough to become a monster."
"You deserve more than what you have."
"I'll count the hours."
At 4 AM, I gave up on sleep entirely. Made coffee I couldn't afford and sat in my freezing apartment, wrapped in a blanket, thinking about everything Zachary had said.
About understanding leading to condoning.
About empathy being a weakness.
About violence being logical when someone threatens everything you've built.
About my father having six months without treatment, maybe twelve with it.
About one phone call being all it would take.
My phone was in my hand before I realized I'd picked it up. I pulled up Zachary's last text, the one about my father's treatment.
"Your father has six months without that treatment. Maybe twelve with it. Think about what matters more. Your principles or his life."
My thumb hovered over the reply button.
One text. That's all it would take. One text asking for help and Zachary would make that call. Would save my father. Would give me back the one person who'd always believed in me.
All I had to do was ask.
All I had to do was accept help from a monster.
All I had to do was admit that my principles weren't worth my father's life.
I put the phone down.
Picked it up again.
Put it down.
This went on until sunrise.
By the time I needed to get ready for work, I hadn't slept at all. Just spent six hours thinking about Zachary. About his offer. About his logic. About the way he'd looked at me when he'd said I was perfect for this.
Perfect for what? Becoming someone who compromised everything for survival? Becoming someone who accepted help from sociopaths? Becoming someone who let understanding turn into condoning?
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I looked exhausted. Haunted. Different.
When had I stopped looking like myself?
My phone buzzed. Another email from Zachary. Sent at 6:47 AM.
"Good morning, Nina. I hope you slept better than I did. I kept thinking about something you wrote in that 2019 article. You said that moral rigidity prevents us from understanding the full complexity of human behavior. That true empathy requires us to suspend judgment long enough to see through another person's eyes. I've been trying to see through yours. Trying to understand how someone as brilliant as you can still believe that principles matter more than outcomes. I don't understand it yet. But I'm looking forward to our next session. To understanding you better. To helping you understand yourself. —Z"
I read the email three times.
Then I closed it without responding.
But I couldn't stop thinking about what he'd written.
About seeing through another person's eyes.
About understanding versus judging.
About principles versus outcomes.
He was doing exactly what I'd spent my career trying to do. Trying to understand me. Trying to see the world through my perspective.
The only difference was his goal wasn't empathy. It was recruitment.
He didn't want to understand me so he could help me. He wanted to understand me so he could change me.
Transform me into someone who thought like him. Who saw the world like him. Who prioritized outcomes over principles.
Someone who could accept that violence was practical. That manipulation was strategic. That empathy was weakness.
Someone who could become a monster without guilt.
And the terrifying part was, it was working.
I was lying awake at 2 AM reading his emails. Googling him obsessively. Analyzing his logic. Finding the sense in his arguments.
Calling him Zachary.
Signing my emails Nina.
Thinking about his offer to save my father and calculating whether it was worth the cost.
I was already changing. Already being recruited. Already becoming someone I didn't recognize.
And I didn't know how to stop it.
Didn't know if I wanted to stop it.
Because the person I was becoming had power. Had options. Had a billionaire offering to save her father's life with one phone call.
And the person I'd been had nothing but principles that never paid the bills.
I got dressed for work in the same cheap clothes I'd worn a hundred times. Took the bus because I couldn't afford anything else. Arrived at my depressing office with its thrift store furniture and water-stained ceiling.
This was my life. This was what being good had earned me.
And five days from now, I'd sit across from Zachary Hale again. Would spend another hour being intellectually seduced by a sociopath who saw me more clearly than anyone else ever had.
Would spend another hour trying not to admit that his logic made sense. That his worldview was appealing. That his offer to save my father was becoming harder to refuse.
Would spend another hour becoming someone different.
Someone darker.
Someone who understood monsters because she was becoming one.
My phone buzzed one more time. Another text from Zachary.
"Five days, Nina. I'm already counting them. —Z"
I stared at the message.
Then I saved his number in my contacts.
Not as "Zachary Hale" or "Patient" or "Court-Mandated Client."
Just "Zachary."
I was in so much trouble.
And the worst part was, I didn't want to be saved.