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You step outside the bathroom and into the main room of the bunker. It's laid out like a studio apartment. A small "bedroom space" (really, just an area dominated by a small steel-framed bed) is in one corner, by the bathroom. Along the opposite wall is a kitchen, which seems fairly normal except for the concrete walls and floor and the fact that the fridge has been replaced with a pantry filled with 30 days worth of canned food. The remaining third of the room is a sort of "living space" with a shelf for books (it has none), a TV (it's not even out of the box), and a small steel table with one folding chair. "Spartan" doesn't even begin to describe the place, and it's made even more stark by the complete lack of knick-nacks, debris, or other signs of being lived in. The most ominous thing is the thick steel door on the opposite side of the room, which looks like the door to a bank vault, complete with a large crank for retracting its heavy bolt. It is the door to the outside world.

Of course, you never did live here, never even considered it. You really only saw the interior once, while it was still under construction. But now, for better or worse, this place is home--at least until you find out what's going on and what happened to the old you.

In one corner of the room, by the bed, there's a dresser--well, really just a set of cheap plastic drawers stuffed full of clothes so new they still have price stickers on them (well, maybe not new anymore, but unused anyway). They're all guy's clothes, meant to fit your old body, but they should fit your new one well enough. In the other corner, near the vault door, there's a device that looks just like a periscope on a submarine, and serves about the same purpose. With it, you can take a look around at what's outside without putting yourself in any danger.