It feels like miles between the door and the desk. There's a sickening hostility in the air, one he's used to from their previous interactions, but it has an off putting feel to it this time. It reminds him —in a way— of street vendors, so focused on selling their wares as to simply miss even drastic changes. The vendors are easily explained ( change blindness ), but Hazama never came across as one to miss much of anything.
An age passes before Izaya reaches the desk. With each step he felt the atmosphere thickening, the pressure increasing to crush him. By the time he stands by the desk it feels as though whatever malevolent god watched over sinners had decided to drop a truck on him. Comforting. He thought. Good to know someone is paying attention.
Standing near Hazama had never been comfortable. Even the most wicked of men would cower in such a presence. Or so he told himself. In truth Izaya almost feared the man, in the way a mouse fears a cat. It's not so much a terror, a paralyzing fear, but a sense of danger. Play the game, tread carefully, everything will go just fine.
"A question, Mr. Hazama."
Izaya dipped a finger in the coffee.
He would've stirred it had there been any warmth,
but as it was he simply flicked it off his finger to the floor.
"How long has this been here for?"