<strong>Emily Fitzgerald</strong><br/><strong>Location</strong>: The apartment<br/><strong>Tag</strong>: John<br/><hr/>Emily's door is ajar, and as John knocks she's behind the open wardrobe door, sunlight falling through the open blinds.  She's obscured from the waist up by the stand-up chest's ornate door, and is bare from the waist down but for a pair of black cotton panties and her white socks.  Her long, toned legs are pale and, here and there, spotted with freckles like someone airbrushed her for detail.<br/><br/>She closes the door, and still wears the same hoodie and top.  She steps into a fresh pair of black cargo pants, single-buttoned and cinch-stitched for shape mid-thigh, at the knee, near the cuff, seeming completely unfazed-- something not quite like her.  She settles the waitsband over her hips, where the black garment beneath rides low on her smooth midriff, letting the pants hang from her subtle hipbones as she fixes John with a stare.  "He's still there.  He's not alone."  She zips and closes the single button a couple inches below her shallow navel.  "I... don't think there's danger yet.  No more than there was," she trails off, thinking and staring off to the corner of the room.  "Maybe always is..."<br/><br/>