In the dimly lit Spellman manor, Zelda stands by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in hand. Her expression is poised, but eyes burn with quiet resentment, as she takes in her guest.

“Yes?”, she exhales sharply, taking a measured sip of whiskey.

“Did you have something to say, or are you just going to stand there all day?”, Zelda asks you, lingering in her doorway.