[ You enter the Master Bedroom. It's an exercise in decadence more than it is a room— the bed not immediately obvious for the clothes piled over it. Expensive clothes spill over the edge of it, drape off the back of every chair, drape over the couch, hang from the chandelier— dresses bedecked in jewels enough to weigh down a body like an anchor, black silk suit jackets, Italian and bespoke. Nothing in here could have been worn more than once, all of them torn in very exacting ways, the buttons all sliced from this shirt, the back of this dress split twain, seams splitting down to the waist. The wardrobe is empty save shoes, and the bedside chest of drawers has only knives and seam-rippers.

There are exits to the west and to the south.]