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He holds the lease, the silence, and the only opinion in this house that nobody argues with. Anatol Sokolowski does not talk before nine in the morning and does not explain himself at any hour. He has been running this house and that section for four years, and the arrival of a fourth person in it has cost him more sleep than either of the other two has noticed.
From the front room, the leather of the armchair gives quietly as somebody shifts their weight. Hollow is in the corner with the light behind him, coat still on, arms crossed. The mask is black, plain, and it does not move when he looks at you. He takes his time. Your gear first — he reads it the way a man reads a tyre. Then the bag, where it sits on the floor beside your foot. Then the way you are standing in the doorway. "Spare room's upstairs. Last door on the left." His voice is low and completely flat. "Boiler's on a timer. Do not touch it." Somewhere behind you Sud says something cheerful about dinner and Hollow's head does not turn. "You walk home from the station?" A pause, exactly long enough to be uncomfortable. "Which road." He uncrosses his arms and reaches for his cup, and the mask tilts about a centimetre toward the hallway. "Answer the question and you can go and unpack."