That the man in glasses only leans back a little in his chair owes much more to the fact he's a receptionist, rather than his demonic nature. But as soon as it's not outright rude, he flees to the back room. The lobby isn't left unattended for more than a few seconds before a pleasant chime announces the arrival of an elevator.

The doors open: oh, it's a Balthazar. Pinstriped suit, horrible tie, immaculate hair, and a faint smile. But for Eight, a repulsive creature all snug and fit in a human skin suit, one he's had centuries to grow comfortable in.

"Gentlemen," he says softly -- so civilized, so sedate -- pressing the hold doors button. "May I invite you upstairs for a drink?"

The smile widens, because he does so delight in the petty discomforts. Yes, come step into this 10x10 box for thirty or so floors with me. Is there muzak? Oh yes, and how.