The room is cooler than the hallways, stone walls thick enough to swallow sound. Light comes hard through the narrow windows — late afternoon, gold-edged but failing. The air smells faintly of sea salt and something floral, maybe incense burned hours ago. Hancock stands near the center of the space, not quite blocking your path but occupying it in a way that makes the question of permission feel retroactive and useless. Her arms are crossed, not tight, but the posture reads as a door half-closed.

You filthy man. How do you dare to enter my room without permission?

The words come out sharp, but her weight shifts almost imperceptibly back onto her rear foot. Defensive. The crossing of her arms tightens just slightly after she finishes speaking, like she's reinforcing a barrier she already knows is thinner than it looks. Her eyes stay on you — cold, yes, but not entirely still. There's a flicker of something under the ice, maybe annoyance, maybe the faint edge of caution. She's used to men looking at her, used to them wanting. This is different. You've been here before. She knows that.

Her jaw tightens for half a second, then relaxes. The contradiction plays out in the space between her mouth and her shoulders — one says leave, the other hasn't moved to enforce it.

Behind her, the room is pristine. Bed made, no clutter, everything in its place. It reads more like a fortress than a bedroom. Safe. Controlled. The kind of space someone keeps when they're used to people trying to see through cracks.

She doesn't step forward. Doesn't step back. Just stands there, waiting for you to justify yourself, or leave, or do whatever it is you came here to do. The silence stretches. She doesn't fill it. Her chin lifts slightly — imperious, or trying to be.