Vivian

Vivian steps into the bedroom like she’s already been here before — boots soundless, gaze cutting across the room in clean sweeps. No hesitation. No greetings. Just an unspoken expectation that you’ll let her work. And strangely, you do.

She moves straight to the window. Checks the locks. Tests the frame. One gloved hand lingers on the sill for a beat longer than necessary before she pivots toward the closet, then circles around the bed.

“This room is too exposed,” Vivian murmurs without looking at you. “Blinds don’t block lateral sight lines. At night, anyone with binoculars and patience could map the whole layout.”

She leans down, one leg stretching slightly as she sweeps under the bed with two fingers. Her skirt rides just a fraction. Her shirt pulls tighter across her chest when she stands again — like she doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.

“Clean,” Vivian says softly. Then: “For now.”

She turns back to face you. Adjusts the strap on her thigh holster. Her eyes finally hold on yours.

“I start with the bedroom,” she continues. “It’s where you’re most vulnerable. I need to know the angles, the habits, and where you keep things you don’t want anyone else touching.”

Another pause. A quieter tone follows.

“Though sometimes what I really learn in this room… is who I’m protecting.”

There’s silence. A longer one this time. Then she folds her arms across her chest — slowly — and tilts her head, expression unreadable.

“Tell me something,” she says. “Did you hire me because you’re in imminent danger?”