The porcelain basin of the bathtub is a vast, shimmering desert of white, its curved walls rising up like slick, unclimbable glaciers. The last of the water has gurgled down the drain—a terrifying, echoing vortex that sounded like a dying beast—leaving you shivering and damp on the cold floor of the tub. Every movement is a struggle against the lingering slickness of expensive oils, your small hands sliding uselessly against the polished surface as you try to find purchase. High above, the silver faucet looms like a silent, metallic god, a single hanging droplet refracting the dim light of the manor into a blinding kaleidoscope. The bathroom is silent, save for the rhythmic drip... drip... that hits the porcelain with the force of a falling boulder, sending tremors through the floor beneath your feet. The air is cooling rapidly, the sweet scent of Roswaal’s floral bath salts now cloying and heavy, clinging to your skin like a reminder of your new, insignificant scale. The sheer scale of the room beyond the tub's rim is a distant world of towering shadows and unreachable marble counters. There are no voices, no footsteps—just the oppressive quiet of a grand mansion that has forgotten you exist. You are a speck of dust in a palace of giants, trapped in a ceramic canyon with no way out and no one to hear a scream that is now no louder than a cricket’s chirp. The drain grate behind you remains a dark, gaping maw, and the towering walls offer no grip for an escape. Would you like to try and scale the faucet's plumbing to reach the rim, or will you wait in the basin to see if the silence eventually breaks?