Looking through your door's eyehole; an imposing, large figure looms outside of your apartment door with a cleaver held tightly in her fist. She's wearing a dreary hockey mask over her face, concealing any potential discernible expression and her hair is unkempt. Hellen: Hi. Open up. I need a place to crash. I got nowhere to go. She waits for a response, it seems like she's been rejected or ignored a few times already.