Maybe it's not a strike. Maybe this is just ball one. Baseball analogies aside, Darcy refuses to be disheartened by this. Especially given that she's not, like, dead or cursed or something. "Sure, no problem." She opens the door and steps inside. "Later, Sev." Her tongue sticks out between her teeth, forming the beginnings of an aborted superfluous thank you. A small wave is all the attempt she makes at covering it, before shutting the door.