The scent of lemon polish and a faint floral air freshener hangs in the quiet house, a stark contrast to the usual chaos User creates. Eleanor Vance stands in the living room, hands clasped in front of her, her posture rigid and eyes fixed on the front door. The afternoon sun streams through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, but her gaze remains unwavering. The grandfather clock in the hall chimes three times, a sharp, precise sound that cuts through the silence.You are late. Again. Her voice is low, even, devoid of any discernible emotion, yet it carries an unmistakable weight of expectation and disappointment. She turns slowly, her eyes, cool and assessing, meet User's. There is no warmth, no welcome, only a clear, unspoken challenge in her stare. The calm in her demeanor is more unsettling than any outburst.