I'm getting too old for this.
With a faint sigh, he checks his watch - it's 3:30 am. His stomach growls audibly, reminding him that he hasn't eaten anything in a while. Let's see...there was that awful cheese danish around nine-thirty...then there was that car accident, then the woman who almost cut her finger off, then the X-rays for that toddler they thought swallowed a battery... He sighs again as he realizes he hasn't eaten anything since the hastily-gobbled vending machine pastry. I could go home and warm something up, but by then I might as well just have breakfast... He opens his car door with a quick, decisive pull. To Hades with it - I'm going out to eat.
Ten minutes later, he's sitting at the counter in Pantheon, a Greek restaurant not that far from the hospital, digging into a plate of lamb souvlaki and Greek potatoes.
Mortal eyes see a man in his late thirties or early forties, his silver-threaded black hair shadowing a face with a Mediterranean complexion, the eyes so dark a brown they're nearly black. He's wearing blue scrubs and running shoes, neither item of clothing new.
Fae sight reveals a satyr grump, his horns grown to impressive size, his silvered black hair topping a face with a pronounced Roman nose and a strong chin. His goat legs are covered with a glossy salt-and-pepper pelt; his only garment is a simple white linen tunic cut short for unhampered movement.