Vaughn had very little familiarity with magicians. The details of Miles' attire were attributed to eccentricity rather than profession, which was probably safer. You couldn't trust a magician. Or a witch, for that matter.
When he banished her alias as something not worth her degree of elaborateness, Vaughn's smile was predatory. "You're sweet," although the words managed to not sound like much of a compliment. Sweetness was not something to be admired in these parts, it got you eaten alive by the banshees and beasties that roamed the halls on nights just like this.
"I must say that I'm curious if your name suits you at all, Mr Glass." The admission arrived with the cool tilt of her smile, as if coy was ever a possibility. She straightened her silken posture and brought up the deceptively delicate frame of her shoulders, pinning him under the weight of her attention. "Do you break under pressure?" Eyebrows slid into sharp arches, but her expression spoke of amusement more than seriousness. Would he need to be wrapped in paper for safe transport back to his own floor?
Speaking of floors, her poison honey eyes slid down the empty hallway when he mentioned it. "I have never lived on this floor." She examined one of the door numbers, confirming that they were indeed on the eighth. "I believe it's reserved for superstitious school teachers."