She goes there when she's off the job. When no one’s asking anything of her. It's grey and cold and concrete, but no one else knows about it and she can kick off her heels, take down her mask, and breathe without needing to look both ways twice.
She found it a night she'd almost gotten caught. Running until she could only hear her heartbeat in her ears, she took the stairs down, through one door and then another. She thought she was done. That she'd met a dead-end. But then no one came. No one grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to hell. She'd been safe and she let herself trust it.
Ivory walls complemented the lavender lace curtains, fluttering to the breeze through the open window. The sill was lined with pots of succulents. An antique oak desk stood to a side, carrying files, fountain ink, and an ornate feather pen. A book lay to the side, titled Madame Bovary. Colorful cushions adorned the high back chair, mixing comfort and authority. The wall to wall bookshelf held all possible books- first editions of classics to cheap paperbacks. Physics, medicine, math- each was sacred. A day bed stood to a corner, her solace only lonely days.
Wherever he is, that's his private space. He doesn't see other people, or rather, he blanks them out. To him, only his own thoughts matter, only his goals have meaning. Within his head, he is all-powerful. Plotting his next move; selecting his next prey. The world revolves around him. Everything else is just white noise.