The location looked much the same as it always did: a simple office that carried a hidden air of mature wealth and elegance.
The desk was made of a solid oak slab that would have cost hundreds of thousands, the white carpet that would sway like grass if there was a crosswind was made from a rare polar bear hide, and the pens that then stuck out from a carefully carved ornament easily cost thousands of dollars each.
Then there was the man himself, wearing the same things he always did, doing the same things he had always done.
Mortimer wore simple silk robes and held a cigar, puffing out tufts of smoke from time to time. His eyes looked much older than his countenance, carrying a deep wisdom, his face itself carrying a mostly black beard with strands of white and grey, his hair carrying a deliberate, slick style to it that gave him a modern touch.