Seven's office had always been the least unpleasant place in the medical wing.
That was mostly because Seven was the person everyone requested when they wanted an actual conversation instead of being surrounded by six specialists who behaved as though a mildly abnormal blood result represented a declaration of war.
Officially, Seven handled their general medical care.
Unofficially, he was the person who knew enough across several disciplines to decide which member of the medical board needed to become someone else's problem.
More importantly, he was polite.
The rest of the board regarded politeness as an inefficient use of consultation time.
Dean sat on the examination bed near the windows with the sleeves of his black shirt pushed above his elbows while morning light reflected from snow across the courtyard outside.
Arion stood beside him.
Far too close.
