The Director of Arkham Asylum hunches over her laptop, her desk scattered with bent paperclips. She shifts and flips open a file, double checking the contents. A couple more therapy logs to record into the database, recommended treatments, safety concerns, medical fees.
She’ll be done for the night in about two hours. Jeremiah leans back in her chair, bending a paperclip around a pencil and shaping it into a janky spring. There’s no need to rush. Something might be needed of her in three or six hours.
Dr. Arkham rotates her chair to face the window behind her desk. No surprise, it’s dark out. Even the moon is shrouded by clouds, though the light pollution coming from Gotham makes a substitute for it. An infected, yellowish substitute.
It’s hard to ignore the scrutinizing gaze of the portrait that hangs above the window. Jeremiah would love to remove it, not too fond of watching people glance between her and the visage of Amadeus over her head. Ultimately, Arkham never moves the painting. It has a degree of importance to it.
Not wanting to think about it’s significance any longer, Dr. Arkham returns her attentions to the spring paperclip. She presses it against the surface of the desk and is slightly disappointed when the wire retains its now flattened shape instead of bouncing back up.
((Closed RP with @grimprognosis !))