Rocket Raccoon followed Schiller into the director's office at Arkham Asylum. He craned his neck and looked around, apparently assessing Schiller's taste in decor.
It was quite a large, multifunctional space. Upon entering, one could see the broad, pale birch floor-to-ceiling windows in the reception area. The sofa by the window was a warm light coffee color, with some features of modernist furniture. On the other side stood a black desk and rows of bookshelves behind it, lending the room a somewhat retro British air.
A little strange, and a little messy, Rocket Raccoon thought, but undoubtedly tasteful and comfortable.
That desk, however, seemed rather out of place—not because of its style, but because it was somewhat cluttered. Fountain pens and notebooks of all kinds were piled together, as though they had just been dug out of some dusty old warehouse.
The moment Rocket Raccoon jumped onto the desk, he tripped over two fountain pens. He bared his teeth, sighed, and looked at Schiller. "This is seriously messy. As a Doctor, can't you keep your office at least basically tidy?"
"It was very tidy, at least before you arrived." Schiller glanced at the raccoon, then at a strand of animal fur that had just landed on the reflective desktop. Rocket Raccoon followed his gaze, scratched his ear with a claw, and said, "You're right. I've been a little anxious lately, so shedding is unavoidable. Got any good pet shampoo?"
"You're used to easing the atmosphere with self-deprecating jokes." Schiller put away the two fountain pens, opened a drawer and tossed them inside, then straightened the books piled at one side of the desk. "That isn't a good habit. You think your self-esteem isn't reflected in such things, that you don't care at all. But over time, you'll become increasingly numb