This was Emryc Qosta, aware of a touchy subject, asking Beatrice Govan if she wanted to talk about it and giving her the option to say no, fully intent on respecting whichever answer she gave.
Yes.
"Okay," the hand that pinched the cig from his lips motioned for her to join him in the lift with a single flicking curl of his fingers, "office hours are over."
Pa Qosta had lived in his office. Literally. Though he had the HQ, the lion's share of his work was actually done in the tower, in his private condo. Emryc always hated that, it made him part and partial to Pa Qosta's private life and he never believed that to be the best choice. Mostly because he fucking hated that man and the more time he spent away from him, the better. Opening his home to his closest Enforcers meant that if Pa Qosta was awake, he was on the clock, and so was every-fucking-one else.
He watched her peel herself from Zib's couch to join him in the lift, only now realizing she didn't have her cane and barely registered a limp. His jaw rolled to the side, gaze following her all the way in to wherever it was she planted herself, and lingered on her figure as he leaned to punch the floor for his workshop. Emryc might've remarked on the improvements if he hadn't already opened the floor for their new topic of discussion: her real name and whatever else that entailed. So he eased back straight and waited for the lift to bring them to the appropriate floor.
The was an entire, expansive floor of more than simply just an idle hobby. He'd taken his hobby and expanded it into a secondary career much in the way Pa had taken his hobby of brewing and distilling and turned it into something worthy of profit. Emryc had organized his collection and put it into a display room. Evolved his rudimentary tools and tables into a fully realized workspace. Created a playground range for testing and honing his craft. Gave himself a place to spend however many waking hours he needed, however long it took, to stay sane.
Beatrice didn't have access to this floor without him. Most people didn't have access to this floor without him.
Emryc stepped out of the lift and lead her down the main hall; to their right an open line of glass panes looking out onto the range; to their left an open archway leading into the display room where he had alotted his various builds and rebuilds, collectibles and antiques, in reinforced cases against a black backdrop. A lounge area sat in the middle, recessed into the floor as a statement of stubborn permanence. It appeared he spent a good deal of time here judging by the tray on the coffee table featuring a fresh pack of cigarettes, three crystalline tumblers, and a bottle of today's choice drink.
He strode past that all and made for the far wall where he unlocked a central display of rifles and pulled Evelynn's shotgun down from the wall hooks. When he presented it to her, it was cleaned and re-blued, the wooden stock recheckered and freshly stained and polished, the worn mechanics replaced with crisp new pieces. Still the same gun, but brought back to life.