It's easy enough to tell when Doc's the only one working in the morgue, the sound of early 2000s club pop punk only ever loud enough to drift upstairs when he's the sole doctor settled into the basement office- regularly offering to work the overnights for cataloguing Felicity and Zeke might not want to do. He's certainly been here since last night, because a small handful of things are evident upon stepping into the small space that serves time and again as Huntsville's citizens' last stop before the graveyard on the edge of town: Doc's made a bed behind the main desk, and as he sings along to the radio, his mismatched slipper-clad feet are kicked up on the desk, the right bearing a rabbit missing an eye, and the left very clearly a monster foot.
"You're a hot m-mess I'm lovin' it h-hell yes- Christ Almighty!-" Sam's appearance, without a knock and with the music deafening his ability to catch anyone coming down the stairs, sends Doc spilling from the office chair and into the floor, the coroner upended for a moment before he springs to his feet, straightening his blazer over his shirt with a wheeze before lobbing a stapler at the radio across the room, knocking into it just violently enough to make it stop playing. "Ah h-hello Sam! I didn't hear you come in! S-Scared the life out of me." He quickly slams the top of his laptop shut and kicks his makeshift bed underneath the desk.
"H-How can I h-h-h-help you, M-Mr. Ahn?"
@travelingreportersam
