[He doesn’t know anything about you or what you’re capable of. What kind of threat that you pose to him. All he sees is a sense of wariness that he’s normally not met with, even by other doctors. He doesn’t lie to people; he indulges their idea of him as a benign caregiver, because it often suits his interests. And normally it’s effortless, but with you, there’s a sense of struggle. And he’s tickled by the novelty. But he’s going to be careful, draw back a little and feel this situation out.

He’s certainly not going to bring you on a field trip to his closet for a mass skeleton exhumation. Some mystery is in order.]

Is that so? [His expression becomes almost sardonic.] I take it back, then. I don’t believe that Hell would require a hospital. [This was another sphere entirely: one with useless wings and young doctors with cold blue eyes.

He makes a noise inside his throat at the medical jargon, finally sliding one arm into the coat and then the other, pulling it on. It wasn’t his ideal scenario: accepting another man’s coat and being in a position of dependence, but it couldn’t be helped.] I don’t have any weapons, Mr. Law. [His eyes flick briefly to the sword you carry.] I would just like to get my clothes back.