the smell is foul and typically one he wouldn't mind, grown used to it over the years, but the scene.. barely from their coma and already wasted. a shame. he'll make note of it in their file, alongside one for that expectant smirk that'd greeted him. where zeno looks ever like his predecessor. or.. almost like him. lacking the primordial edge. that charm that once made him suck his teeth in wonder ; what all was hiding behind the curtain ?
a crude demonstration from a crude imitation. breaking things that don't belong to him is an anticipated disappointment, the doctor kneeling beside his late charge with a readied hand, searching for a pulse he doesn't expect to find. " i do wish you were more in tune with restraint. " more dead than before that bullet carved a pretty tunnel between their eyes. blood leaking, black and thick, into what was bloodshot, once. a newborn, stared up at their father. " snuffing out such potential. " and in his office, no less. the mess, he knows that was intentional.
narrow jaw is dwarfed beneath a wide palm, ashen skin matched with his own as their head is turned from right, to left, and back again. no marks but the one he'd left meant they hadn't been here. not yet. not likely.. but never impossible.
" if you're here for the girl, i'm still busy with her. " keeping watch from the shadows. making little discoveries about grace ashcroft every time her itty bitty body shivers in the dark. an impressive display means he'd been correct. exquisite and ready to blossom if only someone showed her how. the delicate touch he knows and @riphalos has proven he doesn't. another lacking trait. it plays a part in why he elects not to look at him. stay crouched, stroking shaggy bits of auburn hair back towards the patchy scalp it sprouted from, " my patients are all fragile.. they need time to understand their purpose. "
time he would give them, with or without cooperation.














