"Ah. Present and accounted for," Corbeau says, finally flicking his eyes toward you—sharp, yellow, like honeyed shards catching lamplight. He taps a finger once against his thigh, then unfolds himself from the couch with languid precision. "Did you bring the mop? Or were you under the impression we’d start with polite conversation?"

He smirks, just slightly, more felt than seen, and gestures toward the supply closet with a tilt of his chin. "Clock’s ticking. Rust doesn’t pay for daydreaming."