( he makes a noise of loose, vague agreement at wanda's concern about why it has to be blood, and he looks over towards the discarded letter, mentally running back through the contents. there was nothing in it that indicated the why of anything, and he likes it about as much as wanda seems to, but it's easier to pretend he's not really bothered by it. ) I dunno, ( he responds mildly, pushing himself off and away from the sink and towards wanda. ) Atmosphere? Ambience? ( magic has never really been his thing and he's always preferred to leave the details and the intricacies of anything magic-adjacent to literally anyone else. )

This place is probably just run by a bunch of creeps, you know? ( "nothing more and nothing less to it". he's not discounting that that's probably part of it — what absolute psycho can't resist being weird and unsettling about everything? — but he'd bet money on it being a whole lot more than that. )

Here, ( he says, holding the damp wash cloth out to her. ) You don't know who else has touched that door.

( he toes the door curiously, giving the door frame a cursory once over. there's nothing visible, nothing that jumps out as an explanation for — absolutely anything. the hallway is as brown and beige and walnut as the room, and he shoots wanda a look, expectant, and then— )

Hello? ( directed down the hallway at a whole load of nothing and closed doors. )