The fluorescent lights of the dingy office hummed overhead as I stared at the contract in front of me, my hands trembling slightly. Twenty thousand dollars. That's what they were offering me for one month of work. Twenty thousand dollars to let angry people scream at me. "It's completely legal," the woman across the desk assured me, her crimson nails tapping against the laminated surface. Her name was Veronica, and she ran this peculiar agency with the kind of efficiency that made me think she'd done far worse things in her life than facilitate therapeutic verbal abuse sessions. "We provide a service for individuals who need to express their anger in a controlled environment. You're essentially a professional punching bag—verbal only, of course. No physical contact whatsoever." I swallowed hard, thinking of my mother's hospital bills piling up on my kitchen counter. Stage four cancer didn't care about my pride or dignity. It just demanded payment after payment after payment. "And you're sure it's safe?" I asked, hating how small my voice sounded. Veronica's expression softened slightly. "We have security present at all sessions. Cameras everywhere. The clients sign contracts too—strict NDAs, behavior clauses. One step out of line, and they forfeit their payment and face legal consequences. We've been operating for three years without incident." Three years of people paying to yell at strangers. The world was stranger than I'd ever imagined. "Okay," I heard myself say. "I'll do it." Veronica smiled, sliding the contract toward me. "Excellent. Sign here, here, and initial here. Your first session is tomorrow at two PM. Wear the provided disguise—sunglasses, mask, cap. We protect our employees' identities. Some clients can get... fixated." That word hung in the air like a threat, but I pushed it aside and signed my name. Maya Torres. Professional verbal punching bag. My mother would die if she knew. Hell, she might die anyway if I didn't come up with the money for her treatment. --- The next day, I stood outside the address Veronica had texted me, my entire body concealed beneath the required disguise. The building was upscale—a boutique hotel in downtown Seattle with the kind of lobby that made me feel poor just walking through it. Veronica had texted me the room number: 1847. My phone buzzed. Another text from her: *Remember, you can use the safe word "red" at any time to end the session. But you only get paid if you complete the full hour. Good luck.* I'd made the mistake of asking her that morning what my first client was like. Her pause had been too long, too weighted. "Bad isn't even the word for it," she'd finally said. "But he pays triple rate, so if you can handle him, you're golden. Just... don't take anything personally. He's working through some serious trauma." Triple rate meant six thousand dollars for one hour. I could handle anything for six thousand dollars. I knocked on the door of room 1847, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Come in," a voice called from inside. I turned the handle and stepped into a suite that probably cost more per night than my monthly rent. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, and the furniture looked like it belonged in a museum. But I barely noticed any of it because standing by the window, his back to me, was a man in an expensive charcoal suit. He didn't turn around immediately. Just stood there, his shoulders rigid with tension. "Close the door," he said, his voice low and controlled. Too controlled. Like he was holding back something explosive. I obeyed, my mouth dry. "So they sent me another one," he continued, still not turning. "Do you know why I pay for this service, Maya?" My blood turned to ice. He'd used my name. But that was impossible. The agency kept our identities completely confidential. The disguise covered everything. He shouldn't know— He turned around, and the world tilted on its axis. Even through my sunglasses, I recognized him instantly. Would have recognized him anywhere, despite the years that had passed. Despite the way success had sharpened his features and tailored his appearance into something almost unrecognizable from the boy I'd known. Ethan Chen. My ex-fiancé. The man I'd left at the altar five years ago. "Surprised?" he asked, and there was nothing kind in his smile. "You should be. I've been waiting for this moment for a very long time." My legs felt weak. "How did you—" "Know it was you?" He crossed the room toward me, and I fought the urge to step back. "I know everything about the people who work for this agency. I own it, Maya. Well, I own the parent company. Veronica works for me." The room spun. This couldn't be happening. "When you applied yesterday, she flagged your name immediately. I couldn't believe it. Maya Torres, the woman who destroyed me, literally signing up to let me scream at her for money." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "The universe has a sense of irony after all." "I didn't know," I whispered. "I swear, I didn't—" "Of course you didn't. That's what makes this so perfect." He circled me slowly, like a predator assessing prey. "You're desperate enough to take this job, which means you need money. Badly. And I have all the money in the world. Do you see where I'm going with this?" I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe behind the mask. "Here's what's going to happen," Ethan continued, his voice dropping to something dangerous. "You're going to complete this session. And every session I book after this. Because I'm going to book you exclusively, Maya. Every single day for the next month. And you're going to stand there and take everything I have to say to you. Every. Single. Word." Tears burned behind my sunglasses. "Ethan, please—" "Don't." The word cracked like a whip. "You don't get to say my name like that anymore. You don't get to plead. You gave up that right when you left me standing in front of two hundred people, waiting for a bride who never came." The pain in his voice was a living thing, and it cut through me like glass. "You want to know the worst part?" He stepped closer, so close I could smell his cologne—different from what he used to wear, expensive and unfamiliar. "I would have forgiven you. If you'd just told me why. If you'd given me any explanation at all. But you disappeared. Changed your number. Moved away. Left me with nothing but questions and humiliation." "I had reasons—" I started. "Then you better start explaining them," he interrupted, "because we have fifty-eight minutes left, and I have five years of anger to work through. Take off the sunglasses. If we're doing this, you're going to look me in the eye." ---