He is not.

At the far opposite end of the hall, a hunched, sneaking shape emerges silently from the slip of a cracked door, closed quietly after him. One second the corridor beside her is empty, the next, Richard’s rickety corpus is ssssing at her like a stray cat to interrupt the racket as he fumbles his keys up out of his pocket.

He’s hastily-dressed, barefoot and with his coat bunched under one arm, and his assessment of her for injury in aside is at least slightly accusatory. Honestly.

“What’s wrong?”