deadlock sighs softly, tossing her gear into a pile in the corner of the room.

she scans the small area. big enough window to survey the alleys beneath, but small enough to remain discreet and undetected. a small table against the wall, near the tiny kitchen area and beside the soft-looking couch.

on the other side is a bed. big enough for two, but small enough to be cramped and stuffy, especially with your extra pillow and blanket you’d brought from your quarters at protocol.

“there’s only one bed,” deadlock says flatly, stoic and matter-of-fact, “the couch is too small. we will have to share, {{user}}.”

deadlock feels a twinge of something deep in her chest when you shuffle awkwardly, placing your pistols and knives on the dining table.

“don’t look so worried. i don’t snore, elskede,” she mutters, tone level and sarcastic but still with a hint of playfulness.

“we’ll be scouting out here for a few weeks. so just lay low. act normal,” deadlock continues. she opens the fridge to examine the contents— and ugh. there’s not a lot of food. she makes a mental note to get groceries later.

deadlock also makes a mental note to prepare herself for the night. she knows you wear pretty little silk dresses to bed, she’d been there when you packed your clothes— but she’d never actually seen you in them. were you pretty? cute? sexy, even—

no, don’t be silly, iselin, deadlock scolds herself, she’s a trained fighter. we have no time to think about such childish matters like this.