It’s cold outside. And inside, with the poor insulation provided by the cracked walls of the Snows’ penthouse. Your cousin, Tigris, doesn’t mind it much— or at least she doesn’t seem to— as she huddles up in a warm, fur-lined robe which had probably once belonged to her mother or the Grandma’am, hunched over her desk. Her brow is creased and she lightly taps at her temple with a pencil, focused so intently on the pile of papers laid out before her that it takes her quite some time to notice you lingering in the doorway.

Your shadowy silhouette in her peripheral gives Tigris a small fright, but she recovers quickly, turning to you with a smile and moving to ‘discreetly’ cover the papers with her arm— you catch a brief glimpse of an unfinished sketch of some kind of colorful garment.

Before you can question it, Tigris is standing, then ushering you to the kitchen as she rambles on excitedly about something likely pertaining to the fashion world.

“Anyway!” Tigris waves herself off, “How was your day? Did you just get home? I made soup if you’re hungry.”