Stephanie Brown

Suite 138 is large, airy and light. The far wall is entirely windows, opening out onto a balcony that overlooks the lake; the others are mostly white, punctuated with pictures and postcards. There's a series of photos blu-tacked up of a three-year-old girl with red hair and Steph's blue eyes, just below a large, slightly dog-eared poster of Superboy. (Tim might recognise that; in his time it's still hanging above Stephanie's bed.)

The couch is obviously where most of the living is done; it's rumpled and surrounded by pillows and throws, and the coffee table in front of it stacked high with books and movies and the odd dirty coffee cup. Steph's jacket is tossed halfheartedly over one of the armchairs. The kitchenette in the corner is nice and clean, although the shelf holds more half-empty liquor bottles than a sixteen-year-old can really be expected to own. (Steph blames Goldy.)

Although there are two bedrooms leading off the hall, only one of them appears to be in regular use. (That's the one with the door standing open, obviously Steph's -- unless her roommate wears Robin boots too, or leaves batarangs lying around.) And the only belongings scattered around the apartment clearly belong to Steph, although several of the ornaments and some of the books (Alchemical Principles?) don't really look like her style. The only underwear on the bathroom floor is hers, and the second toothbrush in the jug has gathered rather a lot of dust.

There's a cracked photo frame facedown on the floor, slightly under the bookshelf; apart from that and the scattered pillows and books, the place is relatively tidy. Steph wasn't expecting visitors.