It's a room. Just a plain, run of the mill room straight from the 1960s. It's far from luxurious, but it's functional. The only thing remarkable about it isn't the room itself, but the few of the Swiss Alps just outside. Perhaps the map tacked up to the wall, the photos and pins and strings connecting people and places might be memorable to another, but Erik pays them no mind. The image is all but ingrained in his memory, so the faces are sharp and clear, not a random blur.

Erik himself is seated before the window, leaning over the little table there. It isn't papers he's pouring over. Not maps or photos or forged identification papers or travel manifests. No, the table is cleared away of the seeming clutter of papers pinned to the wall and strewn across the desk of the suite. On it, instead, is a chess board onto which Erik is carefully setting pieces. They're rather plain pieces, the sort one might find in a mass produces chess set from a department store. Despite that, Erik inspects each one before setting it in its place.

He doesn't look up, even knowing he's not alone. No-one should be there, but someone inevitably will be. It's odd, he thought, even in his dreams he plots and plans and never truly rests. Chess, after all, is a game of strategy. Strategy, patience, and well-laid traps. Those were the sorts of things with which Erik was intimately familiar. He never once glanced up form the board, merely leant back in his seat and lifted his brows curiously. "Do you play?"