The East Wing was a maze designed by someone who hated visitors.
I turned left at the painting of a man who looked like he'd never smiled in his entire life. Then right at a suit of armor. Then left again at a vase that probably cost more than my apartment building.
And there was the painting of the man who'd never smiled again.
Third time. I've passed this angry ancestor three times now.
This house didn't have a floor plan. It had a conspiracy. Someone had specifically engineered these hallways to trap outsiders in an endless loop of expensive art and disapproving portraits. I was going to need breadcrumbs. Or a GPS satellite. Or maybe one of those search and rescue dogs they send after people lost in the wilderness.
The boba in my left hand had started to sweat. Condensation dripped down the cups and onto my fingers. The paper bag with the Pocky and Buldak ramen crinkled every time I shifted my grip.
I stopped in front of the angry ancestor painting.
