Search Sophie’s room.

You still feel that unease that someone else is cutting your lunch, that Sophie is seeing someone else. Maybe there is some evidence.

There are a pair of Reebonike running sneakers, with the special antigrav insole. They're a size 7 women's. Nothing suspicious there.

You pick up one of Sophie's fat scented candles. She likes to light these up when she's in a particularly romatic (e.g. horny) mood.

Tinkerbell pads into the room from the south as you consider what you could do with this candle. Tinkerbell is Sophie's cat - an orange tabby that, when she can't find a lap to curl up on, likes to park herself near the kitchen stove, sprawled out and basking in the radiating warmth. She's not a bad cat, actually; your relationship with her is certainly a lot less volatile than with Sophie. Tinkerbell lies on her back in the corner.

You exhale in frustration as you turn to the dresser. Sophie's dresser is a spartan little thing - smooth white antique plastic, molded in the ovoid shape that was popular in the 'teens. There's a top and bottom drawer you can open. Opening the bottom drawer reveals some sweatpants.

Tinkerbell stretches, yawns, and pads off to the south.

Opening the top drawer reveals a red lace teddy. Hmmm.

Sophie's bed is a single mattress on a plastiboard frame - about as utilitarian as you can get - with light grey sheets and a thin pillow. It's more what you'd expect from a Marine's bunk than an eighteen year old girl's bed, but then that's Sophie for you - she's nothing if not contrarian