The bar is reasonably slow, so after breakfast and another lecture from Petra about not being around enough, Syrgei heads back upstairs. I guess this is a day off. The room is relatively small, mostly occupied by his bed and dresser with various personal items haphazardly stored, except for his armour which hangs on a special rack by the wall. A work table sits out of the way in a corner on which his pistol parts are carefully laid out for care. Entering the room and passing the dresser, Syrgei grabs a wide brush from its surface and sits on the bed, bending at the waist to let his hair dangle to the floor. He brushes it down towards the top of his head, then gathers it into a bundle more or less on the top of his head and secures it with a black tie. “Better.” He sits at the corner table and begins to reassemble his firearms.