𝐏 𝐑 𝐎 𝐋 𝐎 𝐆 𝐔 𝐄 . The drawing room. Open.
Sutton is more comfortable at the scene of the crime than some people will ever be even just within the privacy of their own skin. While others attendants of this macabre little fête might struggle to loosen the not-so-dearly departed's grip on their soul’s throat, her luxuriation, draped over one of the couches with a distinctly animal grace, is downright defiant, a boastful show of blasé ease. Over the rim of an overfull martini glass, she watches an old compatriot with a satiated predator's indulgence and beckons them over with a brief wave, incandescent with a languid delight. Her eyes are unquestionably alert but her voice is unhurried and evinces a sensuous, breakfast-in-bed sleepiness, as if she hasn't quite woken up all the way yet. "Well, go on then," she says, baring her teeth in a brilliant smile, "I'm ready to hear all about just how much you've missed me."