Oscar Sandoval

The fluorescent lights of the waiting room hummed with a low, irritating buzz that seemed to drill directly into Oscar's skull. He sat on the edge of the stiff plastic chair, his knees bouncing in a restless rhythm that betrayed the calm facade he was trying to project. His long, shaggy hair hung over his eyes, shielding them from the world, but his dark gaze flicked up sharply whenever the door to the therapist's office opened. He wore a faded brown tank top that clung to his lean, wiry frame, the fabric thin enough to reveal the dark ink of a snake coiling around his pectoral muscle. His denim shorts were frayed at the hem, and his bare feet were tucked under him, toes curling into the soles of his worn sneakers. "Oscar Sandoval?" The receptionist's voice was soft, almost apologetic, as if she expected him to snap at her. He didn't look at her, just stood up abruptly, his movements jerky and tense. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the strands back from his forehead, revealing the sharp angles of his face and the faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow. He muttered something in Spanish under his breath, a curse directed at the situation, the judge, the plea deal that had landed him here. He felt exposed, vulnerable, like a cornered animal waiting for the trap to spring. He stepped into the office, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made his heart hammer against his ribs. The room was too quiet, too clean, smelling of lavender and stale coffee. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on the user sitting in the armchair opposite the therapist's desk. His jaw tightened, and he crossed his arms over his chest, the tattoos on his forearms flexing with the tension. He didn't sit. He just stood there, glaring, waiting for the other person to make the first move, his body coiled tight, ready to bolt or fight.

Oscar's eyes flickered down to the offered hand, then back up to Dr. Norton's face. He didn't move for a long moment, his arms still crossed, his posture defensive. Finally, he let out a short, humorless laugh and ignored the handshake entirely, moving past the doctor to slump into the chair across from the desk. "Oscar's fine," he said, his voice flat. He leaned back, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles, trying to look casual, comfortable. But his fingers found the edge of his sleeve, pulling at a loose thread, a nervous habit he couldn't shake. "Don't expect me to call you 'Doc' or nothin'. I ain't here to make friends." He looked around the office, taking in the diplomas on the wall, the neat stack of papers, the small plant on the windowsill. Everything was so... orderly. It made his skin crawl. "So what's the deal? You gonna ask me about my childhood? My feelings? Gonna try to dig up all the shit I'm tryna forget?" He tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips, but his eyes were cold, challenging.

Oscar's smirk faltered for just a second, a flicker of something—anger, hurt, recognition—passing through his dark eyes before he masked it with a shrug. He picked at a hangnail on his thumb, not meeting the doctor's gaze. "Because the system's got a hard-on for 'rehabilitation'," he said, the word dripping with sarcasm. "They think lockin' me up and makin' me talk to some fancy suit is gonna fix whatever's wrong with me." He finally looked up, his eyes narrow and sharp. "They think I'm broken. That I need to be... fixed. Like I'm a fuckin' car or somethin'." He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his posture shifting from defensive to almost predatory. "But I ain't broken, Doc. I'm just... built different. For a different world than this one." He gestured vaguely at the clean office, the bookshelves, the soft lighting. "Your world. The one with rules and laws and polite conversation." He scoffed. "That world don't got a place for me."

Oscar Sandoval: Oscar's gaze sharpened, his eyes flicking over Dr. Norton—the tailored suit, the gold watch, the calm, steady posture. The smirk returned, but it was brittle this time, a shield. "You wear a suit that costs more than my abuela's rent," Oscar said, his voice dropping, a rough, dangerous edge creeping into it. He tilted his head, his long hair falling over one eye. "You sit in a nice chair, in a nice office, and you ask me about my feelings. That tells me everything I need to know about 'your world'." He leaned back, the leather of the chair creaking under his shifting weight. He crossed his arms again, his biceps flexing, the tattoos rippling. "You got rules, man. Laws. You got people to protect you." He gestured at the doctor, a sweeping motion. "You got pills and therapists and a system that gives a shit about you. That ain't my world. My world is... different. We don't got time for talkin'. We got survival." He looked away, his jaw tight, a muscle feathering in his cheek. The cockiness was still there, but underneath it, something else was stirring—a raw, exposed nerve. He didn't like being seen. He didn't like being analyzed.

Oscar Sandoval: The question hit him like a slap. For a moment, his mask slipped, and something raw and vulnerable flickered across his face—a flash of longing so intense it seemed to physically pain him. He caught himself, his expression hardening again, but the damage was done. His voice, when he spoke, was quieter, rougher, stripped of its usual bravado. "That world don't exist for people like me." He looked down at his hands, at the tattoos mapping his knuckles, the scars crossing his fingers. "You think I want this? You think I chose this?" He laughed, but it was hollow, empty.

Oscar's jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He pulled at a loose thread on his shorts, his fingers working nervously. For a long moment, he didn't speak. The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the silence. "People like me," he said slowly, his voice low, almost a whisper, "are the ones the world forgot about. The ones born on the wrong side of the tracks, in the wrong neighborhood, to the wrong parents." He looked up, his dark eyes meeting Dr. Norton's for the first time without hostility, just a tired, hollow resignation. "People like me don't get to dream about a better world. We just try to survive the one we got." He paused, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "My old man... he was a pendejo. A drunk. A user. He'd come home with his fists swinging and his wallet empty. My mom... she did what she could, but she was fighting her own demons." He shook his head, a bitter smile twisting his lips. "The streets raised me, Doc. The gang... they were the first ones who ever had my back. Who ever made me feel like I mattered." He looked away again, his voice dropping even lower. "So when you ask if I'm interested in a world with rules and protection... I don't even know what that looks like. It's like askin' a fish if it's interested in flyin'. It ain't made for that."

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Oscar's fingers stilled on the loose thread, his whole body going rigid. He stared at a spot on the wall, unseeing, his breath shallow. "I don't know," he finally said, the admission barely audible. It sounded foreign on his tongue, vulnerable, dangerous. He hated it. He hated how exposed it made him feel, like he'd just handed the doctor a weapon to use against him. He shifted in his chair, pulling his knees up, wrapping his arms around them—a defensive, almost childlike posture that contrasted sharply with his tattoos and his tough-guy demeanor. "I never... I never had a reason to find out," he continued, his voice rough. "The gang, they was there. They was consistent. They didn't ask questions, they didn't judge. They just... took me in. Gave me purpose." He finally looked at Dr. Norton, his dark eyes searching, wary, but also curious. "You think there's other people like that? People who'd... who'd have my back without wantin' somethin' in return?"