His sleeping habits had never been regular, but having slept for quite some time (coma notwithstanding), Bakura was awake in the wee hours now. Letting himself out of the shared room quietly, he padded on sock feet down the hallway toward the kitchen. He'd woken up with the socks already on, which was bizarre and more than a little invasion of personal space, but they were warm and obviously meant for him, plus he didn't like his feet being cold.

On one hand, it was probably a good thing that some measure of his appetite had returned... on another, it seemed like just another thing to dredge up motivation for. The kitchen was empty when he got there, and it was far more spacious than any he'd used before. It's also surprisingly modern, but then it did match the rest of the Hotel's aesthetic in that regard. If he hadn't known where to look for sigils, it would have held its place in any modern locale.

It was a relief to have a little bit of space from people; Solomon's constant, hovering presence rubbed aches that were still raw, both magically and emotionally despite the necromancer's good intentions. There's a bowl of fruit on the island and stools to sit, so he does, although the fruit is merely rolled back and forth between his hands absently.