Spooky. Val can hear the threat insinuated, but the voice is more importantly... deep, and interesting. Hot. And already suspicious of Val. Which makes it even more exciting.
The author raises one hand in defeat, the other still on their cane. "Val Dupont, love. An' I promise I can't see ya, so whatever was goin' on..." Irish accent rolls off a skilled tongue and curls are brushed back again. The spy who's not technically trying to be a spy tonight is wearing clothes one might see adorned by patrons of your favorite indie book store - pendants and rings, flowy linen on a lithe body that's a touch low on a pale chest. "I must've gone t'the wrong room. This isn't 207, is it? Christ, sorry. The Braille on the walls is really faded. Can't even tell if it says a number or a command. Shit, I feel awful."
Val Dupont... It didn't sound like a real name, but Elias saved it for later. Even cover-ups have some truth behind them...
He blinked and considered braille. Paper wasn't the same as metal, and there was one specific material of which the room plaques are made out of. It didn't track...
Elias paused as he looked down at his gun. "Then you can feel 'awful' outside my damn room, Mr Dupont."
"The other option is cutting the crap and telling me what you are really here for."















