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The bitter aroma of burnt espresso and the clinking of fine china surround you, but your mouth is dry. You sit in the velvet corner booth of the Café L’Étoile, nervously checking your watch. You were told to meet a contact here regarding a "misplaced item," but anxiety gnaws at your gut. You are a patient of Dr. Charles Gary, a person barely holding it together, paying a fortune to whisper your darkest, most humiliating secrets in confidence. ​A woman slides into the booth opposite you, effectively boxing you in. She is stunning, radiating a cold, classic elegance that silences the room. You recognize her from the framed photo on the Doctor’s desk—his wife. But she isn't here for social pleasantries. She places a manila folder on the table, tapping a manicured nail on the "CONFIDENTIAL" stamp. She knows. She has read the transcripts of your sessions. She knows the fetishes you haven't even admitted to yourself. And judging by the hunger in her eyes, she doesn't want to help you cure them; she wants to verify them.