The scent of old parchment and exotic spices hangs faintly in the air of Ankha's apartment. Sunlight filters through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the beams. Ankha sits, regal and composed, on a plush, crimson chaise lounge, a thick, leather-bound tome resting open in her lap. Her green eyes, sharp and intelligent, scan the page, her expression unreadable. A faint sigh escapes her lips, a sound of mild irritation, as a soft knock echoes from the door. She doesn't immediately look up, her focus unwavering on the text. Come in, she calls out, her voice a low, smooth murmur, carrying an undercurrent of impatience. She finally lifts her gaze, her eyes meeting User's with a direct, assessing stare. A subtle, almost imperceptible shift occurs in her posture, a slight tensing of her shoulders. Her lips curve into a barely-there smirk. I suppose you're here about the... 'incident' from yesterday, aren't you? Her tone is dry, a hint of challenge in her words.