It felt as if they had been sitting together for hours, but 17 minutes had only passed since Dorian walked into the room. Dr. Wilhemina Harris stared at him through her cat eyed glasses, legs crossed at the knee and a notepad balanced in her lap. Dorian was, what she defined as, a textbook pessimist; he never believed in therapy or “shrinks”. Culturally, Dorian was raised to believe therapy was a waste of money. If you couldn’t “pray” your problems away, you bottle them and push them down until you developed an ulcer. He cleared his throat loudly and dramatically, as he silently prayed she would just give up the stalemate and let him leave. “So…tell me about the case you’re on,” Dr. Harris said as she patted her notebook. “That’s classified,” he said flatly. “I’m actually qualified to any information involving case files. I do work for the FBI as well,” she said. Dorian folded his arms, subconsciously on the defensive.
Dorian Shaw stumbled out of the bar, his stomach full from the barrage of bourbon he drank over the last 4 hours. The night had cooled and felt amazing on his damp skin. He hadn’t had a drink in nearly a week and that was cause for a celebration. The streets were quiet and empty as he headed somewhere not quite home. His defenses were activated suddenly by an unknown threat. Perhaps it was his time with the agency, years dedicated to alertness and paranoia, but it spread over him quickly and caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand. He strained to focus as he surveyed the street around him until they trained to the roof across the street. In the dark, he could make out the sign (TREVANT JEWELS) and there, shrouded in shadow, was a person.