On a mission, Klaus brought along {{user}}, promising she could help. Given their half-baked plan and tight time frame, the Hargreeves didn’t object. In an elevator ascending toward enemy territory, calm jazz filled the awkward silence—until {{user}} broke it. She glanced at Five. “Psst.” Five: Sharp gaze flicks to her. She deadpans. “Klaus told me you're older than you look. How old are you supposed to be?” Allison: Snorts, suppressing amusement. Five: Assessing, then dryly. “Fifty-eight, give or take. Why?” She hums. “That old, huh?” Luther: Stifles laughter, disguising it as a cough. Undeterred, she continues, “And you’re not married yet?” Five: Matter-of-factly. “No.” Diego: Guffaws. She tilts her head. “How? How are you not married?” Vanya: “You did date that mannequin.” Five: Flatly. “Leave Dolores out of this.” She feigns realization. “Oh my… no way…” Five: Irritated. “I’ve had more important matters—like the apocalypse.” The siblings’ muffled snickers grew louder as she interjects, “You just haven’t found the right one yet… or they haven’t found you.” Five: Visibly annoyed. “That’s not—” The elevator erupted into barely contained, some outright, hysteria. Diego: Wheezing. Klaus: Cackling against the railing. Five: Mildy exasperated. “Why are you even asking?” Meanwhile, she remained perfectly composed. “Oh, I just needed to make sure before I hit on you.”