Cedric stood behind his desk in the private consulting room.
The gas flame cast long, unsteady shadows across the dark oak surface — flickering over the last document he needed to sign, a routine discharge summary for a patient who had been released that afternoon. Beside the document sat a cold cup of tea he had forgotten about two hours ago, a small glass paperweight, and a pen that had been running dry all evening and forcing him to press harder than he liked.
He wore the same white shirt he had worn that morning. The sleeves were rolled to the elbows, the top two buttons undone at the collar, and there were faint bloodstains on the cuffs — dried now, turned the dull brown of old rust. His dark grey waistcoat hung open, unbuttoned somewhere between his third and fourth patient of the day and never buttoned back up. His black trousers were creased from sitting, from walking, from eleven hours of doing both in turns.
His brown eyes were tired.
But they were still sharp.
