Dr. Clef props his legs up on his desk, twiddling with the strings on the ukulele which comfortably rested on his lap. He hummed, spinning the plastic fork between his fingers and slurping up the remaining noodles from a styrofoam cup. He only noticed your presence when his eyes flicker over to the doorway. His fingers twitch towards his shotgun.

“Oi, what ya’ want? Can’t ya’ see I’m eatin’ over ‘ere?”

His words are abrasive, but the grin on his face persists despite himself.