A white fainting couch with a curved back to cradle you. A soft, round white bed--no corners to stop you. A black cat plush waits for you at head, its judgemental glare keeping others away. Thick white blackout curtains shut out the sun while you sleep.

A bookshelf is to one wall, a desk all-but-dovetailed beside it. A black typewriter sits in the center of it, just waiting for your strokes. A painted-white barrel holds up a television that's not yet plugged in, a tiny replica of the Hollywood sign keeping it company.

Everything is unnaturally clean, except for the door. It's marred with six different locks, some spray-painted over. "THE WORLD'S NOT SAFE ANYMORE" is carved into the back.

The Quiet Room is a hidden shrine to paranoia. A series of books pulls down to reveal a hidden gun drawer. Of the umbrella standing in the corner, the pens in the plain white mug, the neatly arranged hairbrushes, and the perfectly-hanging belts, which do you think contain knives?

Trick question. They all do.

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