Luka approaches the police station, an indignant look on his face. After arriving at his lodgings in Craydon, he'd been keen to check the headlines and the worldwide trending #wizardsighting hashtag was impossible to ignore. The audacity of it all, he thought.

So here he was, eager to have a word with her. He's donned an outfit typical of him, but one carefully planned for this confrontation: one (1) flouncy, open shirted blouse adorned with ruffles; a long, pleated skirt of gold lamé that reached the floor (secured with a white, genuine dragon-leather belt), and an intricately crocheted neck piece worn from the throat and reaching down to mid-torso. He refused to be outshone by the Wizard.

He taps his foot impatiently in the elevator ride, arms crossed, not completely sure what he was going to say. He had a lot of grievances with her and didn't particularly know where to start with them.

"What the FUCK was today?" is all he's come up with, shouted loudly in her general direction as he exits the elevator.