You're in a most curious sort of living room. There’s a round window that looks out onto a view of stars and space, a row of counters with six cabinets under them, and some uncomfortable-looking chairs. Everything is curving, mostly white or metal, clean and modern and sleekly utilitarian -- or it WOULD be, if someone hadn’t gone crazy with the paint in here. There are rainbow handprints everywhere, the size of a small child’s, in all colours and overlapping each other, turning the once-solemn room into a rainbow riot.

The only thing that appears relatively normal and clean is a heavy wooden table in the middle of the room: it looks like it might have been an ugly square thing once, but someone’s very industriously applied carving all over it: flowers and patterns over the surface, lions down the legs, and -- well, maybe more underneath, but you can’t see it from here. It’s very well done.

There are three wooden picture frames perched on one of the counters, but they are empty.

There's a faint, bitter smell of alkali; you can't immediately pinpoint its source.

You can also hear someone breathing.