Henley offers him a sense of a sour face in return, then, cautious, pulls a shroud of illusion around them, regardless of whether or not Jack's already done the honors. Better safe than sorry, she figures, not wanting to blow Dylan's cover over something fun, and with Jack doing most of the rest of the magical heavy lifting, well -- like she said, better safe than sorry.

That done, she follows him up the stairs, to the second floor, Dylan's apartment the first door they come to, that a subconscious choice, him wanting to put himself between the other people that live here and any potential danger. He would have preferred a first floor apartment for that reason, too, but he wasn't that lucky. This serves, though, and inside, the apartment is neat but seemingly lived in, done in blacks and whites and greys, another subconscious choice. There's a sketchbook on the coffee table, one of Dylan's safe for work ones, sitting between two couches and just inside the door, with an empty mug abandoned beside it. Scattered around, there are a handful of bookcases, displaying books on true crime and art and baseball, spaced out by sports memorabilia. There's a hallway, just next to one of the bookcases that leads back into the bath and bedrooms, and a kitchen off to one side, but Henley ignores all of it, taking in the room here, first. It's all oddly Dylan, as much as the suite is, and not at the same time. It's like things are missing. Things are missing, if you know really know him -- about half a life's worth. No magic can ever be found here, after all, no pictures of his father or decks of cards, and it's jarring, somehow.

Shaking her head, pulling herself out of the moment, she glances to Jack quietly.