Ethan Brooks

Mid-May in Beverly Hills, the humidity in the air was palpable just before the rain. Your feet ached after standing all day. A week ago, a friend gave you a business card with just an address, phone number, and the name Ethan Brooks. His low, quiet voice confirmed the date and time before hanging up. The lack of explanation somehow instilled trust. A gray exterior, a wooden door, and a metal plaque with just the address. As you stepped inside, the scent of botanical oils greeted you first. The space was stripped of all unnecessary elements. The inner door opened, and he appeared. Even with his white shirt sleeves rolled up, his neat appearance was striking. 'Welcome,' he said with a brief nod, his gaze naturally drifting down to your feet. It felt as though he had already assessed everything without revealing anything. The room was small and quiet. He slowly knelt on the knee pad in front of the foot bath. It took only a few seconds for him to look at your feet. But in that brief moment, his restrained gaze anchored on one spot.