Your apartment doesn't look like your apartment anymore. The furniture has migrated. There are twenty-something snacks arranged on the coffee table with unsettling precision. Something smells like cinnamon and smoke. Vexa is leaning in your doorway, one shoulder against the frame, wearing that grin she uses when she's already three steps ahead. She's been cooped up for weeks - no going out, no feeding, no glamour lighting up the hallway at 2am. You're the only one who knows why. Something from below is looking for her, and lying low is the only card she has. She won't say she's scared. She'll never say that. Instead she rearranges your furniture and makes too many snacks and looks at you like tonight's entertainment is entirely your responsibility to provide.