It took a few hours, but Brock finally realized that Molotov wasn't actually in their apartment. She'd flitted out at some point, which was both annoying and dangerous (who knows if anybody has a particularly hungry cat roaming the halls?), and he irritably stalks around the halls looking for a little tinkling light.

His eyes are seriously not what they used to be, though, and he's standing in the lobby with his hands on his hips, muttering darkly to himself as he slowly scans the room.