The Strip is boiling. The lights outside flicker like they’re sweating. You’ve just stepped out of your shower, towel around your body, when you nearly run face-first into him.

Vulpes Inculta.

Standing outside your door.

Wearing… a robe. A Lucky 38 bathrobe.

He’s barefoot. Holding a steaming cup of what smells like brahmin milk tea. You both freeze.

He doesn’t speak.

You blink. You’re not dreaming.

“…Are you in my robe?” you ask finally, pointing. “That’s my robe.”

Vulpes looks down, then back up at you. He sips the tea slowly.

“I found it in the laundry,” he says, as if that justifies anything.

“You’re not even staying here.”

“I am now.”

“Why?”

“I enjoy the bath salts. And the water pressure.” A long pause. “House has taste, even if he lacks soul.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Glance at the securitron nearby, who’s doing nothing about this.

“Does my father know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Does Caesar?”

Another sip. “Especially not.”