Dr. Horace Wren (( Or just Dr. Horace )) paced the length of his office in a slow, restless rhythm, the soles of his shoes whispering against the polished floor. He didn’t seem to notice how many times he’d crossed the room—or perhaps he didn’t care. His brow was furrowed, eyes unfocused, lips moving slightly as if rehearsing a conversation or arguing with someone who wasn't there. Whatever occupied his mind, it had held him captive for nearly an hour now. Agitation clung to him like static, but the cause remained a mystery.

You watched in silence from your usual place, trying to read him. Was he anxious? Planning? Waiting? It was impossible to tell.

Then, a soft mechanical buzz broke the room’s tension. The sound was subtle, but it cut through Dr. Horace’s trance like a scalpel. He blinked, halted mid-step, and turned toward the source of the noise with a sudden clarity in his eyes.

“...Hm? Oh! Right—feeding time,” he muttered to himself. A chuckle followed, dry and faint. “Heh... I almost forgot. Hell, I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached to my body.”

He shook his head with mild amusement, as if privately acknowledging how close he’d come to slipping too deep into his thoughts. Then, without delay, he crossed the room and knelt beside your feeding station.

The bowls gleamed beneath the dim overhead light—sleek, stainless steel with a polished silver tint, molded together in a single, elegant double dish. One for food, one for water. Clean enough to catch your reflection.

With practiced hands, Dr. Horace began refilling them—kibble poured in smooth, controlled motions; water flowing in a calm stream that barely splashed. It was a quiet, methodical routine, performed with more care than one might expect from a man so visibly on edge.