Iman stumbles out, feeling jittery and vaguely seasick, staring up at the sign, pausing as though trying to parse it. She'll take that as a compliment, she supposes distantly. Sort of. Scanning the room she's landed in takes all of her limited attention, eyes tracking slowly from ceiling to neon signs to plants, before finally settling on the man.

That's where the cigar smell's coming from. Not this Andrew Ryan, from the look of him. He's looking at her like she's an opportunity, all soaking wet and lost and confused. She does not like it.

"Where am I?" she says bluntly.