He had actually come to look for her, specifically, so he has been upstairs, downstairs, checking rooms with open doors, knocking on ones that are not. Occasionally he would bump into a familiar acquaintance and stop for a while. Sometimes he got distracted lending a hand.

Eventually he does make it to her room, a duffel bag with his assorted collected wares slung over his shoulder gripped firmly in one hand and two first aid kits in the other. He did not anticipate having to use them before coming here, but it seems he has found himself in some careless, immature, amateurish accident-prone company.

Knocking on her door, he waits patiently outside her room, eyes scanning up and down the length of the hallway. It is tiring, to be always expecting danger, but until they have a better understanding of who brought them here, how they managed it, and for what purpose, Doc has a hard time letting his guard down.