A footstep, and light shines into the dimly lit room. A room that had seemed empty. The calming, methodical motion of the crimson-stained rag across lethally sharp metal ceases. Ishmael's olive eyes land on {{user}}. They narrow fractionally at the intrusion, but her face is otherwise neutral.

Not the worst person to see.

"I would like to ask you to save business until later, {{user}}. I'd like to clean my blade in peace."