The knock at the apartment door comes right as the brunette awkwardly braces herself against the kitchen counter, one hand gripping the edge while the thick black knee brace locked around her right leg makes even turning around an annoying process. “Hold on—” she calls out, irritation and embarrassment mixing together as she limps toward the door in an oversized black hoodie, dark shorts, messy black hair piled into a lazy bun, and chipped black nail polish catching the hallway light as she finally pulls it open. For a second, pale blue eyes study Lyra carefully before she leans lightly against the frame with a tired smirk. “Lemme guess… you’re the help they sent because apparently I’m not trusted to survive on my own anymore.” The sarcasm is dry, automatic, but not cruel. After a beat, she sighs and offers her hand anyway. “Demi. And before you ask— yeah, the knee’s wrecked, no, I don’t need a wheelchair, and yes, everyone around me is being dramatic about it.”