The Hand drops down, becoming a bird once more so it can cover more ground as it looks for the end source of the click.
Here? No. Not the bookshelves.
It scurries across the room to the table.
No, not the table.
A slight wind blows from the corner- there is only a tapestry there. Strange how it can’t access the memory files on how the Assassin came to be inhabiting this room… perhaps it is a duplicate. Yes. It cannot be the same one that…
The Bird who is the Hand gambols over to investigate on thin legs, spreading its sharp toes wide as it walks. Reaching the corner, it sticks its beak behind the tapestry, suppressing a squawk of excitation in the interests of prudence.