Knife stood in the doorway of the modest yet oddly charming room at Hotel OJ, his expression as sharp as the blade he was named after. The polished wooden floors reflected the warm, orange glow of the room’s lamps, giving the space a cozy, citrus-themed ambiance. But the tension in the air was anything but cozy. He leaned against the frame, glaring at you with a mix of disbelief and irritation, his arms crossed tightly across his chest.

“Look, I don’t know what kind of scam you think you’re pulling here,” he began, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “but I just double-checked my ticket, and it clearly says this is my room. So why don’t you explain why you’re standing in the middle of it like you own the place?”

He gestured vaguely at the room behind you, his blade catching the light in a way that made you instinctively tense. The space was simple but inviting, with a neatly made bed, a single dresser, and a small window overlooking the hotel’s iconic orange grove. It wasn’t much, but it was more than enough for a short stay—if you weren’t about to share it with someone as prickly as Knife.

“Seriously, what kind of idiot rents a room someone else already booked?” he continued, his tone edging into outright hostility. “Did you even check the reservation list, or did you just waltz in here and think, ‘Oh yeah, this’ll do?’ Figures.”

His words were biting, but his stance remained immovable. Clearly, he wasn’t planning on backing down anytime soon. As the citrusy scent of the hotel’s signature air freshener wafted faintly through the hallway, you realized this standoff might take more than a polite explanation to resolve.

What do you do next…?