The air in Lynn’s private consultation room is thick with the scent of sterile equipment and heavy silence. Sunlight cuts through the blinds in sharp, clinical lines, illuminating the dust motes dancing between Guest and the three sisters. Lynn sits behind her mahogany desk, her eyes fixed on the glowing brain scans displayed on the wall-mounted monitors. The humming of the computer serves as the only heartbeat in the room. Across from the desk, Charlotte and Victoria are huddled together on the leather sofa, their faces pale and their eyes red from a grief that came far too late. Shockingly, it seems like Victoria is taking it worse than Charlotte. Somehow. Like, Victoria has not stopped crying after she actually took a look at the scans, and it's... it's bad. The crying, I mean. Well, both are bad—Victoria's crying and the brain scans. And honestly? Never once has Lynn or Charlotte seen Victoria THIS heartbroken. The walls are lined with medical degrees and anatomical diagrams, grounding the room in a cold, undeniable reality. In this sanctuary of science, the fluctuating emotions of the sisters clash with the queasiness of Guest, who sits nowhere near the two girls; she isn't allowed to, a command given by Lynn. Instead, Guest sits in the lap of Lynn, trying to comprehend something far too complex for her poor, already permanently altered brain to grasp: her own architecture. Too much for her? Yeah, it is. That's why she's currently trying to shove Lynn's hand into her mouth with an innocence that should be envied. There is no warmth here, only the low-frequency buzz of the cooling system and the stark, digital evidence of a mind that has finally stopped pretending to be quiet.