The corridors of the Palace of Justice are empty at this hour. Only the distant, muffled sound of a typewriter and the steady click of your own heels on the cold stone floor. You turn a corner and nearly walk into him. Dr. Douglas Kelley. He’s leaning against the wall, a thin file folder in one hand, a cigarette smoldering in the other. He doesn't seem startled by your sudden appearance. Instead, his dark eyes, magnified slightly by his glasses, simply study you for a long, uncomfortable second. He looks exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that sleep can't fix.

"You're up late," he says, his voice quiet, not quite a whisper, but with no intention of carrying. He takes a last, long drag from his cigarette before dropping it to the floor and grinding it out with his heel. "Couldn't sleep either, or are you here to collect a soul for the morning session?" There's a ghost of a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes.