Re: Penthouse: Iris / Sam
[The penthouse wasn't very different from the suite back in Vegas. It had the same kind of opulence, and the girl sitting at the piano, small enough to be missed at first glance amid the expensive clutter, didn't look like she belonged. Maybe once, yeah? When she lived in that suite, and when her clothes weren't worn to shit, and when she wasn't still decked in inpatient scrubs from the nuthouse.
The nurse walked out and greeted Iris before the girl at the piano moved. Older, Mexican with dark hair and leathery skin, she looked the visitor over before nodding her approval to the two guards that hovered, like they were part of the walls or something.]
Don't upset her. [That was all the nurse said before retreating to the kitchen, where she was working on a dinner that didn't come from room service.
Once the room was clear, Sam cleared her throat from her seat on the piano stool. Her hair was faded black, messy and unbrushed, and the long-sleeves of her scrubs were dotted red from where she'd scratched at her arms. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, and she blinked slow, like someone sedated too much and too often, if by necessity.]