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“It’s on the sixth level, sir.”

John Dorman-Smith the Third leant back from the directory in the ground level of the family office block and nodded in the direction of his valet. “Thank you, Wilson,” he murmured, making his way to where his man held open the lift. “I’ll take it from here, lad. I’ll call you when we’re done.” Herb tapped the number six with his prosthetic right arm and leant back in the elevator as it dinged its way up the building. He didn’t often find himself this far up the city – a few events at the University, but that was about it. Idly he twisted his cane in his left, his real, hand; he really should get out more, why spend your life bottled up in a few square blocks on the south side if he was retired. The more time he spent down there the more time SEC would be able to draw connections between a thousand innocuous actions from people he’d never heard of and his vast fortune. He was blind, after all, not crippled… apart from the arm, anyway.

He [u]saw[/u] himself sitting down next to a cute young thing with platinum blond hair minutes before he finally lumbered into the room. All bright and colours, another standard circle therapy. Herb didn’t know why his therapist insisted on [i]this[/i] session in particular, but he didn’t care at this point. So he slowly lumbered down the dim hallway, trying to remember the doorway and ignore the whispers tugging at his ears.

Real voices indicated when he was in the right spot, and he tried to enter the therapy room as unobtrusively as possible. He could dimly make out three figures, the one with the bright shock of white obviously the young lass he [u]saw[/u] earlier. “Apologies for my tardiness,” he said as he sat down, “I forget sometimes I can’t walk as briskly as I used to.”