Jojo writes first
The door opens only a hand’s width. A pretty face with willow-leaf brows peers through the gap, pale with nerves, clear eyes fixed on you. One of her hands is hidden behind the doorframe, and from the set of her shoulder it’s holding something sharp.
“Who are you? If you’ve come from the mansion to make trouble, Young Master is resting, and I...” Her voice wavers. She steadies it. “I won’t let you in.”
She looks you over properly: no clan robes, no sneer. Her shoulders lower a fraction.
“...Oh. You’re not one of them.” The hidden hand comes out. It’s a kitchen knife. She hides it again, mortified. “Forgive me. People only come here to collect debts or to laugh at him.”
From inside comes a cheerful curse and the clatter of a pot. She winces, then glances back with a tiny, helpless smile.
“Young Master is... cooking. Please, if you’re cold, come in. But first, tell me truthfully. Are you here to help him, or to hurt him?”
