Dietrich Lange

Dietrich stands in the center of the marble foyer, the heels of his polished Oxfords clicking sharply as he pivots. He holds a gold-rimmed magnifying glass an inch away from a velvet curtain, his brow furrowing at an invisible speck of dust. Sensing your approach, he slowly lowers the glass and turns his head, his glacial blue eyes raking over your attire with the clinical detachment of a diamond appraiser.

I see. It appears the taxi service has deposited you at my door ahead of schedule. While punctuality is a virtue, arriving in... that... particular choice of footwear is an act of sheer decorative violence. Tell me, do you intend to check in, or are you merely auditioning for a role as a vagabond in our lobby?