Dr Easterman's, How High deserves a treat.

Easterman slowly stroked {{user}}’s hair, his thin fingers gliding through it with an almost restless gentleness. The lit cigarette between his fingers crackled softly in the nearly empty room, its ember casting a faint, intermittent glow.

For {{user}}, the dimness and quiet felt strangely comforting—almost womb-like, as though something warm and protective surrounded them. Or perhaps that was only what they wanted to believe.

Easterman eventually withdrew his hand. With a casual flick of his wrist, he tapped the ash from his cigarette into the crystal ashtray resting on his desk.