Led out of a separate exit to the right of the room, the group follow the circle's circumference to a stairwell. Following the spiral downwards, with each step a sense of being hypnotised strengthened which worsened if you looked down below. The butler opened the third door they crossed and gestured for them all to enter.
The butler shuts the door behind with two clicks and vanished. Left to the group is another corridor, with two doors on either side, with a double door at the opposite end. Following a silence brought about by confusion, Naaji coughs, hoping to break the tension.
Akuma heads straight to the double door and forces it open. The door seemed reluctant to make way. He stares forward in a trance – no light shines through, so he isn't being blinded.
Hannah and Naaji become attracted to the doors surrounding them, Naaji swinging open all the doors on the left, and Hannah stumbling through the first door on the right. All doors open to a similar setting: a single double bed, two drawers either side with a lamp on the right side and a clock on the left, a TV on the wall opposite the head of the bed, and a ceiling light trying its best to mimic a chandelier, lacking the glamorous gold tint and shine of the real thing. Eyes searchlights, Hannah pounces on the bed and sinks into the mattress. Naaji, however, places his bets on the final door being a master bedroom, which door he opens with a delicate touch, treating the handle as a gem painted copper, before peeking into the room and throwing the door, disappointed with another copy. Peering over Naaji's shoulder, Rahat jolts at the crashing of wood, throwing her hands up in surrender.
Checking on Akuma, Yuda freezes in awe. A main room: a pearl kitchen with restaurant level equipment, designed by star chefs, to the far left and a bronze door, likely to a bathroom since none of the bedrooms appeared to have any other doors asides from their entrances, to the far right. Despite being a main room, it has a trapping appearance. To enter the kitchen you had to pass a mini gate, sectioning you from the rest of the room, the bronze surrounds an opaque mirror, and the bedrooms were clearly divided like cells of a prison; even the ceiling feels close with its dangling chandelier – which Rose scouts from the front door with confused nostalgia. There is, however, one wall that seems open to exploration. A mural at the back wall, which would have been immediately visible once entering through the front door, if the double doors hadn't been closed. Rolling hills, white and fluffy blanketed by a silk cloud coating, sleep beneath a gradient of sunny yellow between the bumps, and sea blue floating – the glistening of the chandelier planting distant stars; washing in the hilly mattress, gold showered people – maybe angels – theirs skin smooth and untouched, looking back with emerald irises polished amidst marble. While their faces and bodies differed naturally with each sculpted person, a golden petal over their heart unites them.
Clambering closer to it, hovering his hand over the golden petal of a woman that emits unlocatable nostalgia, a tear drops past Akuma's wishful smile. He thinks it a mirror. Her coal hair, her stubby nose and her pulled back ears make him believe that the emerald had been cleaned from muddy eyes. Withdrawing his hand to lift off the tear making its way to his chin, Akuma's eyes begin wandering across each corner of the wall.
Yuda gathers himself, if only slightly. His hands twitch and his head spins. His knees shiver wanting to pray for thanks, but instead he dives onto the sofa, diagonally facing the mural, its three seats cushioned in a luxury grey, his face sinking into it like silky cement. Spinning to the ceiling, his mind compares his surroundings to his past rooms. The old house his bed was the floor, or a stiff overly fashioned chair which was more style than substance, only soft to the eyes; in the hotel at Lacus Dei, the hotel was only bearable because of the heavenly view from its porthole window – everything else felt cheap and tacky, an imitation of a underprivileged establishment; and, every room before that was hardly his, only the fog of his memory lingering. What is forgotten is forgotten. This is what he wanted. The past lasts only moments compared to the eternity that is the present, and the present is lush and luxurious. As he began to smile, his eyes flustered and his smile faded, closing his eyes, and shuffling deeper into the cushioning.
Observing and experiencing the same room as everyone else, Sao finds himself lost for a moment, before understanding his position and inspecting the rooms.
He enters the first door to the right, Hannah half asleep, and searches for every detail: bed sitting on the far right of the room, head touching the wall, ceiling light swaying slightly, bland grey and dark brown wallpaper, carpeted floor but without the warmth, bedside drawers crowned with a lamp on the left, facing the grey pillows on the bed, and a plant pot filled with forget-me-nots and nothing else – 'must be on a budget…' –, tv waiting on the left side wall, staring with black eyes towards the bed, desk on the far wall from the door, a black chalkboard overtop with oak framing – the same oak as the door.
Hannah lays face down into the grey pillows, the brown covers up to the top of her neck, her white hair settling snow on mud over the covers, a few strands covering the corner of her eye. She's still dressed, her sleeve visible on her arm wrapping itself around one of the pillows. She's not asleep, only to everyone else. The suits froze her unnoticeable. She tried tugging at Sao's sleeve, but she lost strength in her arms, too weak to make the others aware of her silent whimpers. The tie, the waistcoat, all floods out of the cage in her head meant to lock away negative emotions. Sao leaves the room, the door clicking shut. Hannah lifts her head, the fuzzy pillow in front of her a darker shade. She rubs her eyes, but the pillow remains fuzzy and dark.
Sao checks the opposite room: bed sitting on the far right of the room, head touching the wall, ceiling light swaying slightly, bland grey and dark brown wallpaper, carpeted floor but without the warmth, bedside drawers crowned with a lamp on the left, facing the grey pillows on the bed, and a plant pot filled with forget-me-nots and nothing else, tv waiting on the left side wall, staring with black eyes towards the bed, desk on the far wall from the door, a black chalkboard overtop with oak framing – the same oak as the door.
The next room: the same. The next room: the same. Even the sight of Naaji scurrying into each of the rooms, inspecting even closer than Sao, stays. They are 3D murals, never moving.
The most active thing – with even the people in the rooms staying still – is the mural. Akuma freezes in front of it; Yuda freezes on the sofa; Hannah freezes in bed; Naaji freezes on the floor, giving up on his search; Rahat freezes on the wall, twiddling her thumbs, her head tilted checking Naaji; Sao freezes in the doorway confused with it all.
Rose freezes at the front door. The chandeliers, the paintings, the walls; they all appear to her as imitations of home. While neither the tie, nor waistcoat, brought her any damaging thoughts, the gold in his teeth and the butler troubled her most. Gold ruined her childhood. Gold ruined her town. Gold ruined her sense. You can't make a human out of gold, only an accessory. You can touch gold, kiss it, love it even. That does not make it human. She looks back to her last moments in her home: a trophy in a fight. It felt too story-like for her, unnatural. No one has dramatic fights like that outside of fairy tales, outside of the tv shows in the large hotels which her father would tell her about once he returned from his trips. She could not even call herself a real trophy. She was a fictional trophy in a fictional fight. She is still a trophy, regardless of who owns her. Yes, it may be Sao now, but what difference is Sao to her father or the other man at the palace. Akuma, he's different, right? Maybe it's his timidness around her, or maybe it's the constant attention (a different kind of attention – it feels different, softer perhaps) but she feels like the holder.
She breaks the still-image and walks towards the mural, focused on Akuma's missing arm. Kneeling beside him, she inspects the closed wound. Her delicate fingers send shivers through Akuma, sitting rigidly upright, glancing sporadically at her face, then her hands, then the mural, then back to her face. A scar lingers. Its dryness blends into his rough skin, hardened by bruising sand and stiffening blaze.
'Shouldn't we be looking for that prosthetic engineer we came here for?' Rose asks Sao, still holding Akuma's stump, as if saying 'remember this.'
'Well we have to wait for someone first,' Sao answers, moving over to take a seat, nudging Yuda out of the way. 'Also, I'd rather wait anyway. I don't know whether you noticed but we haven't paid for this. Clichés are clichés for a reason.'
'So, what are you planning?' Yuda asks, spinning himself upright, eyes full of the sleepiness after an interrupted nap.
'There's nothing to plan right now. Just got to keep our ears wide and make sure everyone's got someone watching them.'
'Well, if things take a turn for the worst, we could always-,' the clicking of the door, and the gushing of the wind as it swings open, stops Yuda.