None of this is close to anything Harrowheart has experienced in his life or otherwise. The music is of a style totally foreign to him and it sets him on edge, worries him with its sweeping, drawn-out sounds that to an Earth ear might otherwise be calming. In Viatorus's body he sits in the waiting room, hands clenching the armrests of his chair until the skin on his knuckles strains. His leg won't stop bouncing. Now and then he looks to his friends, but only when he's sure they aren't looking at him, and always quick enough to look away before any eye contact is made.

And then he's called in.

The unfamiliarity of the situation really only grows. He's never been inside an office. Really, never. Nothing in his experiences ever necessitated it. The demonic painting is the least out-of-place thing for him, and though he considers it for quite a long time he doesn't seem surprised to see it. Little details like the metronome, the light, those are the stranger sorts of devices that make him feel uneasy. Somehow, being in this room feels like... Punishment. Doctor Hill looks like a father there behind his desk, dressed as he is, back straight. He's smiling, though? And it seems an honest smile, if Harrowheart had to judge it. It's still a poor consolation after the events of the last two days, and the anxiety he feels isn't easily banished.

Harrowheart shuts the door behind him quietly after one last mournful look to his friends in the waiting room. He creeps across the room in the quiet steps that Viatorus's body is more capable of than his own. When he arrives at the chair he hesitates, but the doctor asked him to sit, and so he does.

"I don't know... What you mean by that?" He draws his lips into a thin line only to keep from frowning. "Where do we begin? I... I thought you were going to change us back? So..."

Someone's clearly unfamiliar with what psychologists do. But Doctor Hill, in his infinite wisdom, ought to know that.