[Nuts, and he has shitty taste in music. So he likes a little music with his work, huh? How quaint and tasteless, like this whole hideous hotel.

She can hear him on the radio, mumbling away to himself. He probably spends every winter talking to ghosts and throwing parties for himself. Pitiful, but not so pitiful that she loosens her hold on her knife. Something crunches beneath her shoes (confetti? Who knows) as she steps forward, lingering in the doorway, watching his hunched back.]

What took you so long? What are you really doing, huh?

[She smirks.]

Have you been up here so long that you've lost your sense of time, and your marbles?