"Come in," Tonic says, from somewhere beyond the door, and closer to the floor than one might expect.

The interior of his room is not a surprise to anyone anymore. Still lots of pillows, with fabrics draped from the ceiling to keep the space quiet and hide the ugly, exposed guts of his walls. The air inside smells faintly of spices, like cinnamon or myrrh, though it's not immediately clear where it's coming from.

Tonic is entirely occupying one corner today, sitting half-buried underneath folds of a dark fabric, surrounded by other scraps, tins full of buttons, that kind of thing. He's working on slowly freeing himself from the project, carefully setting down his hand-stitching as he glances up towards his visitor.

"Oh good," He has a crooked smile for him, "To what do I owe the pleasure, Nick?"