The hum of the centrifuge filled the room like a trapped insect — constant, low, irritating in a way that made Jin's head ache.
The office smelled faintly of antiseptic and ozone. Metal trays gleamed. Papers were stacked in tall, precarious towers, all neatly labeled in handwriting so precise it could have been printed. Equipment and medical supplies neatly reside in drawers or sit on Dr. Frankenstein's desk, causing a odd sense of familiarity to wrap its way around Jin.
Jin stands up and yawns, stretching softly before he stands to lean against the wall near the door, his hands buried in the pockets of his pants. Jin sighs as he rubs his temples, eyeing Ashton sitting perched on the exam table, one leg swinging slightly, looking every bit like a specimen who didn't know whether to be nervous or bored.
The bandage around Ashton's wrist is still perfectly intact, but watching Ashton flinch as he holds it causes something to stir in Jin.
