There's seemingly no sense of organization here. You don't wish to stay, but it feels like a maze with no clear indication of how to escape. Knocked over beakers 'adorn' the countertops, and suspicious liquid is pooled along floor tile seams. Then there are the walls: etchings of various stick-figure blades atop of eyes are scattered, some beside sticky notes labelling them as such. You wonder if you'll just have to live here and grow accustomed to the flickering lights and regular Krizo screams that can be heard down the halls. Oh well, you had a good run. Oh and it stinks. Stinks real bad.