Word came several weeks back, and it didn't take a terribly keen eye to read between the lines of smashed skulls, and absent parties. That the nature of the disagreement has so far escaped correspondence is a sight more troubling.

Less, yet, than the one before her now. (The tattoos are new. Maker.)

She doesn't stop dead — more practiced than that — but some pause can't be helped, and that's as clear a tell as if she'd just given in. So she does: After a few places to carry her around the corner, into the doorway of her office. The knife at her side she lays flat on the table, leaves the one at her back. Its position will be expected, but that gives Galatea something to stop her going for, and that's itself something to work with.

Then she sits, puts her hands in easy view, and reviews a mental list of anything she might have done to piss the girl off.

It's longer than she'd like.