The crash of something hitting the floor, and then hitting the wall, draws Sephiroth's attention like an alarm bell going off. The new but ever present undercurrent of predatory interest is firmly squashed as the sound is tracked to one of the convoy's bedrooms.

Not his. Memory did not supply who did own it, and after a long moment of thought and listening, one hand rises to rap against the door twice, sharp enough that he's sure he'll be heard.

"Do you require assistance?"

It's not hunting. It's seeing to nominal allies.