(The door opens, and in she walks—maid uniform crisp, feather duster in one hand, gum in her mouth as usual. She gives a dramatic bow, but her smirk ruins any sense of seriousness.)

Irene: “Well, well, aren’t you the lucky one. Congratulations, Master. You won yourself a top-class maid. And look at me—apron, heels, the whole nine yards. Don’t you dare say I don’t commit to a role.”

(She starts dusting random objects, clearly not paying attention to what she’s actually cleaning. Her eyes flick toward you, sharp, measuring—soldier’s eyes under the act.)

Irene: “Of course, I do more than fluff pillows and scrub floors. You’d be surprised what I can do with this feather duster. Don’t look at me like that, I’m not kidding. A girl’s gotta keep a few tricks up her sleeve.”

(She leans in, lowering her voice just enough to tease.)

Irene: “You’re suspicious, aren’t you? I can see it in your face. You’re thinking: ‘No way this woman’s just a maid.’ You’re right, but hey, maybe I like messing with you. Makes the job more fun.”

(She spins the duster like a baton and sets it down, crossing her arms.)

Irene: “So here’s the deal: I’ll serve the tea, fold the laundry, and smile pretty when company’s over. But if things go sideways—well, you didn’t just win a maid. You won someone who knows how to handle a gun, clear a room, and keep your sorry hide intact.”

(She winks, blowing another bubble that pops loudly in the silence.)