# Chapter 1: Projection

"You fucking piece of shit!" The woman sitting across from Alex screamed, her face twisted with rage. "You think you can help me? You can't even help yourself, you pathetic excuse for a human being!"

Alex sat calmly in his chair, hands folded in his lap. His living room had been converted into his workspace—comfortable enough to put clients at ease, but sparse enough that nothing valuable could be broken. The women, Cynthia, was a corporate lawyer in her mid-forties. This was her third session.

"Is that all you've got?" Alex asked, his voice steady. "I've heard worse from children."

Cynthia's nostrils flared. She stood up, pacing back and forth across the hardwood floor. She walked in designer heels that clicked with each step.

"You think this is funny? You're nothing but a fraud. A charlatan taking money from desperate people."

"At least I help people," Alex said. "What do you do? Push paper and make rich people richer?"

That did it. Cynthia whipped around, pointing a manicured finger at him.

"You have no idea what I do! I work eighty hours a week building cases that matter! While you sit here in your pathetic little house playing doctor!"

Alex nodded slightly. "And how's that working out for you, Cynthia? Those eighty-hour weeks? That divorce? Your kids who won't return your calls?"

"Fuck you!" she screamed, grabbing a throw pillow from the couch and hurling it at him. Alex didn't dodge. The pillow hit him in the face and fell to the floor. "You don't know me! You don't know anything about me!"

"I know you paid two thousand dollars to tell me what a piece of shit I am," Alex said. "So I must be worth something."

"Worth something? You're worthless! Absolutely worthless!" Cynthia grabbed another pillow. "I should have gone for the premium package so I could break your fucking nose!"

"You couldn't afford it," Alex said with a slight smirk. "Premium's five grand. But you're too cheap. Just like your ex-husband said, right?"

Cynthia let out a guttural scream as she said, "Don't you dare bring him into this! That cheating bastard doesn't deserve to be mentioned!"

"And yet you still defend him to your friends," Alex said. "Still haven't told them about the secretary, have you?"

"How could I?" Cynthia's voice cracked as she continued. "Twenty-three years of marriage and he throws it away for some twenty-something slut! Do you know how humiliating that is?"

"Must be almost as humiliating as paying a stranger to verbally abuse him," Alex replied. "Almost."

"I hate you," Cynthia said, her chest heaving. "I really, really hate you."

"Good," Alex said. "That's what you're paying for."

Cynthia stood there as her breath came in short gasps. Then her shoulders slumped. She sat back down on the couch, dropped her face into her hands, and began to sob.

Alex didn't move to comfort her. That wasn't his job. His job was to be the vessel for her rage, her hurt, her shame—everything she couldn't express in her carefully constructed life.

After a minute, Cynthia wiped her eyes. She had black mascara smudges on her cheeks. "I hate him so much," she whispered.

"I know," Alex said.

"I want to scream at him like this. Tell him what he did to me. To our family."

"Why don't you?"

Cynthia laughed bitterly and said, "Because I'm Cynthia Harlow, senior partner at Marshall and Weiss. I don't scream. I don't lose control."

"Except here," Alex said.

"Except here." She took a deep breath and smoothed her skirt. "Time's almost up, isn't it?"

Alex checked his watch. "Five more minutes."

"Can I use the bathroom to fix my face?"

Alex pointed down the hall. "Second door on the left."

While Cynthia was in the bathroom, Alex stood up and stretched. His back ached slightly from sitting so still. He walked to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, then returned to his chair.

Cynthia emerged and looked fresh-faced, as if the past fifty-five minutes hadn't happened. Only the slight redness around her eyes gave her away.

"Same time next week?" she asked, picking up her purse.

"If you want."

"I do." She took out her checkbook and wrote efficiently. "Two thousand, as agreed."

Alex accepted the check. "Thank you."

Cynthia paused at the door. "You know, Dr. Bailey, this is helping. As crazy as it sounds."

"It's not crazy," Alex said. "Projection therapy works. We store negative emotions like poison. Sometimes we need to vomit them out."

"Charming analogy," Cynthia said with a small smile. "See you next week."

After she left, Alex locked the door behind her and leaned against it as he felt tired but satisfied. One more client helped. One more person unburdened, at least temporarily.

He went to his bedroom and changed out of his session clothes—a plain button-down shirt and slacks—into jeans and a comfortable sweater. Looking in the mirror, he examined his face for any marks Cynthia might have left with the pillows. Nothing. She was mid-tier package. The premium clients left bruises.

Alex checked his phone. It was just past six. Time to head to the club.

---

The Psychology Club occupied the second floor of a converted warehouse downtown. It wasn't an official organization—just a group of local therapists who met regularly to drink, talk shop, and decompress from the emotional weight of their profession.

Alex entered through the back stairwell and nodded to a few colleagues as he made his way to the bar. Most of them knew what he did, even if they didn't approve. Psychology was a small world, and his methods were controversial enough to be infamous.

"The usual, Alex?" the bartender asked.

"Thanks, Mike."

The scotch arrived neat, just as he liked it. Alex took a sip and let the warmth spread through his chest.

"Well, if it isn't the human punching bag," a voice said behind him.

Alex turned to see Dr. Mark Levine, a behavioral psychologist from the university. They'd been in grad school together.

"Mark," Alex said with a nod. "How's academia treating you?"

"Can't complain. Published a new paper last month." Mark sat on the stool next to him. "How's your... practice?"

"Profitable," Alex said. "Very profitable."

Mark shook his head. "I still can't believe you're doing this. It's completely outside ethical guidelines."

"So is most breakthrough therapy," Alex replied. "Besides, my clients sign extensive waivers."

"That doesn't make it right. You're letting people abuse you, Alex. How is that helping anyone?"

"It helps them," Alex said simply. "They come in broken and leave better. That's all that matters."

"And what about you?" Mark asked. "What's it doing to you?"

Alex shrugged. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are." Mark sighed. "Look, I get that you've found a profitable niche, but—"

"It's not about the money," Alex cut him off. "It never was."

"Then what is it about?"

Alex didn't answer, just took another sip of his scotch.

Mark changed tactics. "I heard you had a session with Senator Bryant's wife last month."

"You know I don't discuss clients."

"Word gets around. Apparently, she went for the premium package. Broke a vase over your head?"

"It was a lamp," Alex said. "And it barely left a mark."

Mark whistled. "Five grand to assault a licensed therapist. What a world."

"She needed it," Alex said. "Her husband cheated on her with three different women, and she has to smile for the cameras every day. Where else can she express that rage?"

"Actual therapy?" Mark suggested. "CBT? Talk therapy? Literally anything else?"

"Those methods take time," Alex said. "My clients need relief now."

"Hey boys," a female voice interrupted. "Are we debating Alex's questionable methods again?"

Dr. Sarah Chen joined them at the bar while her bright smile contrasted with her serious eyes. She was a trauma specialist who worked with veterans.

"Just expressing my professional concern," Mark said.

"Leave him alone, Mark," Sarah said. "Alex's methods are unconventional, but they work."

"Thank you," Alex said, raising his glass to her.

"I didn't say I approve," Sarah clarified. "But I've referred a couple of my toughest cases to you when nothing else was working. They came back different. Better."

"How do you sleep at night?" Mark asked Alex. "Knowing people are paying to hurt you?"

"Like a baby," Alex replied. "How do you sleep knowing your patients spend years in therapy with minimal progress?"

Mark bristled. "That's not fair."

"Neither is life," Alex said. "Look, I get that what I do seems strange, but think about it psychologically. People spend their lives repressing rage, shame, grief—all these emotions society tells them are unacceptable. I give them a safe space to express those feelings."

"By letting them call you names and hit you?" Mark asked.

"By being a target that won't break, won't judge, and won't remember it tomorrow," Alex said. "I'm not their friend or family member. I'm a professional."

"A professional punching bag," Mark muttered.

"If that's what they need, yes." Alex finished his drink. "Another round?"

Sarah nodded. "I'll have what he's having."

"Make it three," Mark said reluctantly. "So what's your rate up to now? For the premium package?"

"Five thousand per session," Alex said.

Mark choked on his drink. "Five thousand dollars to beat you up? And people pay it?"

"I have a waiting list," Alex said.

"Jesus Christ," Mark shook his head. "I'm in the wrong specialty."

"You couldn't do what I do," Alex said matter-of-factly.

"Because I have ethics," Mark replied.

"Because you can't take a punch," Sarah corrected. "Alex trains, what, five days a week?"

"Six," Alex said. "Boxing, jiu-jitsu, and strength training."

"See?" Sarah said to Mark. "He's a professional."

"A professionally insane person," Mark muttered.

They fell into easier conversation after that, trading stories about difficult cases (without names, of course) and departmental politics. Alex relaxed as the evening wore on. This was why he came to the club—to be around people who understood the toll of carrying others' emotional burdens, even if they didn't approve of his methods.

More colleagues joined their circle. Dr. James Wright, a child psychologist with a booming laugh. Dr. Mira Patel, who specialized in addiction. Dr. Tom Fischer, new to the area, who kept asking Alex for details about his practice with disturbing enthusiasm.

"So they can say anything to you?" Tom asked. "Anything at all?"

"Within reason," Alex said. "No racial slurs, no homophobic language. I have boundaries."

"But they can threaten you? Say they want to kill you?"

"That's the mid-tier package, yes."

"And do they ever mean it?" Tom leaned forward. "Do you ever feel actually threatened?"

Alex gave him a level look. "No. It's projection. They're not threatening me—they're expressing repressed rage at someone else."

"Fascinating," Tom said. "And do you ever feel... I don't know, aroused by it?"

The group went silent.

"No," Alex said coldly. "It's not sexual. It's therapeutic."

"Of course, of course," Tom backpedaled. "I just meant—"

"I know what you meant," Alex said. "And this conversation is over."

"Sorry, man. I didn't mean to offend."

Mark changed the subject quickly. "Hey, did anyone catch the new research on childhood trauma response patterns? There was a great article in the Journal last month."

The conversation moved on, but Alex noticed Tom still watching him with uncomfortable intensity. This happened sometimes—people assuming his practice must have some sexual component. It was one of the reasons he insisted on recording all sessions.

"Alex, how's your daughter doing these days?" James asked suddenly. "Must be what, ten now?"

The entire group froze. Sarah made a small, distressed sound.

Alex went completely still. The glass in his hand stopped halfway to his lips.

"I'm sorry," James said quickly. "I thought... I must have confused you with someone else."

Alex set his glass down carefully. "I need to go."

"Alex, I'm so sorry," James said again. "I don't know what I was thinking."

But Alex was already standing, putting on his jacket with mechanical movements.

"It's early," Sarah protested. "Stay for one more drink."

"Can't," Alex said. His voice sounded strange, even to himself. "Early session tomorrow."

He left without another word, not trusting himself to speak further. Behind him, he heard the hushed, urgent whispers start.

"What did I say?" James asked.

"His wife and daughter were killed," Sarah's voice explained quietly. "Home invasion. Three years ago."

"Oh god," James moaned. "I had no idea."

Alex didn't hear the rest. The door closed behind him, and he was out in the cool night air.

---

The walk home was long and silent. Alex moved through the dark streets automatically and barely registered his surroundings. His mind was carefully, deliberately blank—a skill he'd perfected over the past three years.

A sudden growl broke his trance. A large dog stood in his path with teeth bared and hackles raised. A stray, by the look of it—no collar, ribs showing through matted fur.

Under normal circumstances, Alex would have given the animal space, maybe tried to calm it down. But tonight, he simply stared at it.

Something in his eyes—something cold, empty and dangerous—made the dog whine. It took a step back and then another. As Alex continued to stare with his absolutely blank eyes, the animal tucked its tail between its legs and scurried away with a frightened yelp.

For a moment, Alex's entire body radiated a palpable threat. Something primal and predatory washed over him, not the controlled aggression he used in his training, but something darker. Something that made even an aggressive stray dog recognize him as the more dangerous animal.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the moment faded. Alex slightly slumped his shoulders. He resumed walking, his face once again a careful mask of neutrality.

The night closed around him as he made his way home, alone with thoughts he refused to acknowledge.