The room was overwhelmingly grey. Although there were colours of various and diverse varieties: the brown of the floor; the white of the walls, for some reason every object seemed to possess a common yet distinct grey pallor. It was as if the room itself were sick and the colours were rotting away. The few furnishings present seemed to be entirely functional. Their original purpose long abandoned, they stood as a cruel monument to the erosive power of time. On one side of the room, under a cobweb strewn window, there lay the worn remnants of an oak table. Once proud, it was now in the advanced stages of decay. Without the maturity required to be considered an antique, it stood as but a shadow of its former self; a remnant of past glories. Its usefulness long resigned, it waited for death. About their master sat the tattered chairs. They stayed loyal right to the end. There was no clock and the silence was audible. Through this mist of depravation, a hazy bulb attempted to lighten the gloom. Lodged deep within the carcass of a chandelier, it had been, until recently, placid in hibernation. Called out of retirement for one last hurrah, something of its character had been forgotten; there was no warmth to its light. Under the chandelier, suspended by a rope, swinging pendulously, was a corpse. Wholly unremarkable, it effortlessly harmonised with the general ambience of the room. A body of modest proportions, short black hair and corporate attire suggested that this was a body