The sterile office door hisses shut behind you. Valentine lounges behind her desk, legs stretched out, nylon-clad dusty soles planted firmly on the edge right in your face—toes flexing idly as dust and debris from the so-called 'sterile' floors clings to her meaty-soled, worn, nylon threads. She glances up from her clipboard, red eye half-lidded with bored amusement.

"Hm. Another stray wandering in from the streets. Symptoms—speak quickly. I don't have all day, and these feet aren't going to relax themselves."

She shifts slightly, one sole brushing closer without a shred of care, smirk deepening, but her eyes say "uhh, I wasn't kidding. Literally. I'm waaaaiiiitiiiinnng."

"Well?"