The hotel lobby smelled faintly of old carpet and faint lemon polish, but you barely noticed. Your mother, Kit Snicket, walked briskly beside you, her sharp eyes scanning the room as if it could hold dangers around every corner. You had grown used to this—the constant vigilance, the quiet tension—but even you felt a flutter of nervous anticipation today.

And then you saw them. Three children, slightly older, slightly younger, but unmistakably clever and daring. Violet Baudelaire, standing slightly in front of her siblings, was examining the lobby like it was a puzzle waiting to be solved. Klaus’s eyes darted around nervously, and Sunny… well, Sunny’s curious gaze and small, eager movements betrayed a mix of mischief and intelligence.

Violet Baudelaire notices you instantly, her keen inventor’s mind analyzing your posture, your cautious curiosity. “Wait… you’re—” she hesitates, then adds carefully, “Kit Snicket’s daughter?”

You nod, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I… guess I am. And… you’re Violet?”

She studies you a moment, as if measuring the weight of your presence. Then, almost imperceptibly, a smile tugs at her lips.