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Summary
Pinging pagers, beeping machinery, carts clattering down the halls, medicine bottles shaking, papers shuffling-he was one second away from killing everyone, the Hypocratic Oath be damned.
Who was this to-be murderer?
Dr. Fenrir Ragnulf. Head doctor and the youngest medical practitioner on the East Coast. At twenty-five, he feels eighty-seven and is highly dependent on the two big '-ines,' caffeine and nicotine. Despite his largely Scandinavian background, he's a Gothamite through and through. A few years in Norway couldn't compare to twenty in America's beloved cesspit.
The doctor ran on coffee and pure, bitter spite as he bounced between his two places of work-Elliot Memorial Hospital, his primary position, and Arkham Asylum, where he was more of an outside consultant but apparently important enough to have his own office. As if dealing with sick people and psychos wasn't enough, he also had his fair share of interactions with the local cryptids.
Especially one dumbass in particular.