...head toward the mansion's study. If there were any answers to this madness—you figured they'd be there. Whoever this “T.S.” was, their frustration hinted at deeper layers of discontent and dysfunction within this mansion… er, facility.
With the crumpled note in hand, you step through the dining room, your claws clicking softly against the polished floor as you leave the plush rug behind. The air grows quieter as you proceed, the faint whir of cool ventilated air replaced by an eerie stillness.
The map you glimpsed earlier suggested the study was located just down the east corridor, past a grand staircase and a hallway lined with faded portraits. Cautious, you move slow, eyes darting to every shadowed corner, every flicker of motion. The silence presses down on you, and with each turn of a corner, you brace yourself for the possibility of encountering more of those monstrous figures—or inhabitants of his unusually deserted mansion. Where were the “employees,” anyway?
Your rubbery scales squeak faintly with each movement, the sound amplified in the quiet. The portraits on the walls are faded and smudged, their subjects obscured by age and neglect. Each frame feels like a watchful eye, following your every step. You flick your tongue instinctively, tasting the air for any hint of danger--and feeling even more exposed due to your nudity.
Finally, you reach a tall, dark wooden door with brass fittings—and pause. Lifting your claws, you rest them lightly atop the handle. Something about the air here feels… heavy. A faint draft slips through the cracks of the door, carrying with it the scent of old leather and ink, mingled with something faintly metallic.
Taking a deep breath, you brace yourself and push. It creaks on its hinges, revealing a room that’s both grand and… utterly chaotic.
Bookshelves stretch to the high ceiling, crammed with dusty tomes and loose papers. A large oak desk dominates the center, its surface cluttered with notebooks, diagrams, and what looks like a disassembled piece of equipment. A single desk lamp casts a pool of golden light, warmth barely reaching the far corners of the room.
You step inside, your claws sinking slightly into the worn rug that covers the study’s floor as the door clicks shut behind you. The cozy interior is a stark contrast to the dusty scent of the halls you just left–and as you draw your gaze around, you can't help feel the weight of knowledge and secrecy that this room holds.
Your wariness doesn’t fade, though. The oppressive silence gives no sense of calm; it's as if the room itself is holding its breath.
But, with a flick of your tail, you approach the main desk, scanning the scattered papers for anything that might provide clarity…