[Liethell]

Kane Palmerson sat in a seat, legs crossed, hunched over, his hands folded. He watches his own fingers flex, unflex, and flex again, seemingly occupied with what they do. The doctor was taking too long for his tastes, and he had called him once or twice before. He supposes the doctor's room is a little more soundproof. Or perhaps the good doctor is ignoring him. He's a doctor. He wouldn't be ignoring his own patient, would he?

He hears the door open and lifts his head, jaw clenched. He does not greet the new therapist with a smile, he does not stand up to shake his hand, he hardly even seems interested in the shorter, tubbier man in front of him. He was so unobtrusive, there was no way he'd be a real threat. Just another pill pusher, probably.
"You're late, doc." His tone is flat, as if he was simply stating a fact rather than criticizing him. There is a moment of silence as he analyzes the man in front of him. He brushes his hair out with his fingers, and he shifts. He's relaxed, evidently deciding the doctor does not pose a physical threat.
"What're you interested in hearing today? A sad and heartfelt childhood story, followed by another list of inane and absurd labels, and more pills? Or are you going to skip that sappy David Copperfield crap and skip right to the pills? I know you're very busy." He begins to straighten himself. He's begun to put on weight, making him look a bit softer, but there is something innately powerful about the way he holds himself that holds even with his weight. It's as if he believes himself a lion or perhaps a wolf, raising it's heckles and warning the therapist that he has imposed on his territory, and he is allowed here by Kane's mercy alone.