"Honestly? Pathetic."

You wander about, looking with vague half-interest at the various components of the room. There's the lone bed, which wobbles and creaks as you rest your hand upon it. It can't be particularly restful, especially when split between two individuals. There's the rickety bookshelf, which appears to actually be a salvaged section of a larger, executive-style desk. Pulling out one of the books on its shelves, you flip disinterestedly through the water-stained pages. Some grocery store pulp trash, it seems, though you're sure they treasure it.

"Honestly," you sigh at last. "The man has no creativity at all."

Mr. Baxter's response to your words is simple disbelief. "Pardon?"

"It's so trite," you complain - waving your arm around the room in explanation. "Like he read some ridiculous BDSM fever-dream somewhere and decided 'yeah, I'm going to do this.' And then copied that shit exactly, never once bothering to contemplate whether or not it would actually be worth doing. I mean, really now. He created these playthings from the ground up. I'm sure it cost a small fortune. And then he used them for... little more than receptacles for ****? When he could have done so much more? It's a ludicrous waste of time, energy, and finances."

The attorney doesn't seem to know how to respond to that - and so, after a pause, you sigh. "Well, whatever. I'm in charge now. Let's see what other nonsense the man's put together, so I can start planning changes."