The following morning Steve wakes with the sun. Day three in this miniature hell and he has already established a routine. As he dries his face, still wishing for a razor, he takes stock of his situation.

He's been over every inch of the tower room. There's no hidden door. No trap door. No staircase. No way out!

His steps falter as he exits the bathroom. In his sleepy state he had not registered the state of the room.

Everything is back in place! Every rug. Every piece of furniture. Everything!

He walks into the room, trying to wrap his head around it.

'They' had managed to rearrange everything while he slept. 'They' had lifted the mattress back onto the bed frame without waking him.

Steve notices something that makes him see red!

'They' have fixed the fucking hole in the fucking floor!

The only sign it had ever existed was the slightly charred floorboard now fixed firmly back in place.

The bed sags and creaks ominously as Steve drops down on the edge. He pays it no attention as he stares at the floor.

How have they done this without waking him? Are they drugging him? Something in his food or water perhaps... The food! There is fresh food everyday. They are doing that while he sleeps too.

His eyes widen as a nasty thought occurs,

How long is he actually sleeping? Has he really only been here a few days?

Steve's thoughts fall away as the side of the bed drops out from under him. The jolt as he hits the ground acts like icy water directly to his brain.

There is no point obsessing over questions he can't answer. It's time to act!

He picks up the mattress and takes it to the large window, where he turns it on it's side to slide it through, and drops it. It lands half on top of the shiny material, still pooled on the ground where it has been lying for the past two days. The tiny pile at the base of the tower is by no means a promising sight, but Steve has just started. He grabs the mats and rugs from the floor and bundles them out of the window. He stops long enough to change into a fresh outfit, one that doesn't reek of sweat and smoke, then continues his rampage. The contents of the chests and cupboards are the next to go flying out the window. His discarded dress joins the puffy pastel cloud that has accumulated below.

He walks through the rooms once more, satisfying himself that every last scrap of material, anything soft, anything that 'might' assist in breaking his fall, is added to the pile outside, right down to the loofah from the bathroom. Looking at the distant mound of furnishings and fabric, Steve knows there is no way he'll come through this unscathed, but he's hopeful that the crash-mat he has created will be enough to break his fall, without breaking his spine.

It is a very faint hope.

He looks down and his stomach drops.

God he could use a drink about now.

GROWL

And some food. He has to eat... but what's safe? 

He looks at the contents of the pantry. A sandwich is out, even if he hadn't thrown the bread out the window in his haste. The fruit is the only thing he can be moderately certain hasn't been tampered with. He polishes an apple on his skirt, staring at it's glossy sheen as he considers what he is about to do. He starts eating the rest of the apples, as one alone was no where near filling. He begins to regret not holding on to something he can use to take some with him.Then again, thinking of a bag full of apple becoming a bag full of apple butter... NO! He's not going to think about it. Not now. It's almost time to go.

"HALLOO!"

WHAT THE FUCK!